



Class 






COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




• ( 


[k 



/ 




FROM THE VALLEY OF THE 
MISSING 


4 








9 





1 





i 




1 




I f 

i 


i 



» 




• r«. 








's 

^ .' A . 

' i 

s<^' -•■ 


f'- > 


#P - ■'•' 

te-'^ . 

V,T*r, ' • ' 

< ' VI ^ / 

. 'f' •< u I 
., ».> '/ .•" ■’ ' ' 

' JV-* • 




•. A 




I 














I 


•^'.i ' f t' 

*• ■ i-'*^*--^** I-, 


I 

,n 

i 

i 


I 

'f 

h 

•4 

t i 


1 

; f 


f 



4 


% 



ALLEY 

of the 

LtoiNC 




In 


G RACE MM-'/ 


y M 1 LLER 
JuthS'r WHITE 
oA°TE 5S ot the 5TORM 
COVNTRy<3^ronfispiece 
^PENRHYN 5TANLWS 
W- J - WATT 6- COMPANY 

PVBLI'SHERS • NEWYORK^ 


Copyright, 1911, by 
W. J. WATT & COMPANY 


Published, August, 1911 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE 
MISSING 


t 



“FROM THE VALLEY OF THE 
MISSING” 

CHAPTER ONE 

O NE afternoon in late October four lean mules, with 
stringy muscles dragging over their bones, 
, stretched long legs at the whirring of their mas- 

ter’s whip. The canalman was a short, ill-favored brute, 
with coarse red hair and freckled skin. His nose, thick- 
ened by drink, threatened the short upper lip with oblitera- 
tion. Straight from ear to ear, deep under his chin, was 
a zigzag scar made by a razor in his boyhood days, and 
under emotion the injured throat became convulsed at 
times, causing his words to be unintelligible. The red 
flannel shirt, patched with colors of lighter shades, lay 
open to the shoulders, showing the dark, rough skin. 

“Git — git up!” he stuttered; and for some minutes 
the boat moved silently, save for the swish of the water 
and the patter of the mules’ feet on the narrow path by 
the river. 

From the small living-room at one end of the boat came 
the crooning of a woman’s voice, a girlish voice, which 
rose and fell without tune or rhythm. Suddenly the mules 
came to a standstill with a “ Whoa thar ! ” 

“ Pole me out a drink. Scraggy,” bawled the man, “ and 
put a big snack of whisky in it — see ? ” 

The boulder-shaped head shot forward in command as 

1 


FROM THE VALLEY 


he spoke. And he held the reins in his left hand, turning 
squarely toward the scow. Pushing out a dark, rusty 
steel hook over which swung a ragged coat-sleeve, he dis- 
played the stump of a short arm. 

As the woman appeared at the bow of the boat with 
a long stick on the end of which hung a bucket, Lem 
Crabbe wound the reins about the steel hook and took the 
proffered pail in the fingers of his left hand. 

“Ye drink too much whisky, Lem,” called the woman. 
“ Ye’ve had as many as twenty swigs today. Ye’ll get 
no more till we reaches the dock — see ? ” 

To this Lem did not reply. His shrewd eyes traveled 
up and down the girlish figure in evil meaning. His thick 
lips opened, and the swarthy cheeks went awry in a gri- 
mace. Before the hideous spasm of his silent merriment 
the woman who loved him paled, and turned away with 
a shudder. She slouched down the short flight of steps, 
and the man, with a grin, malicious and cunning, lifted 
the tin pail to his lips. 

It’s time for her to go,” he muttered as he wiped his 
mouth, “ it’s time for her to go ! Git back here. Scraggy, 
and take this ’ere drink cup ! ” 

This time the woman appeared with a fat baby in her 
arms. Mechanically she unloosened the pail from the 
bent nail on the end of the pole and put it down, watching 
the man as he unwound the reins from the hook. Again 
the long-eared animals stretched their muscles at his 
hoarse command. He paid no more attention to the 
woman, who, seated on a pile of planks, was eying the 
square end of the boat. She drew a plaid shawl close up 
under the baby’s chin and threaded her listless fingers 
through his dark curls. Scraggy’s thin hair was drawn 
back from her wan face, and her narrow shoulders were 
bowed with burdens too heavy for her years; but she 
hugged the little creature sleeping on her breast, and still 


OF THE MISSING 


S 


kept her eyes upon the scene. Beyond she could see the 
smoke rising from the buildings in the city of Albany, 
where they were to draw the boat up for the night. On 
each side of the river bank, behind clumps of trees, stood 
the mansions of those men for whom, according to Scraggy 
Peterson’s belief, the world had been made. Finally her 
gaze dropped to the scow, where little rivers of water made 
crooked paths across the deck. Piles of planks reared 
high at her back, and edged the scow with the squareness 
of a room. Scraggy knew that hauling lumber was but 
the cover for a darker trade. Yet as she glanced at the 
stolid, indifferent man trudging behind the mules a love- 
light sprang into her eyes. 

Later, by an hour, the mules came to a halt at Lem’s 
order. 

“ Throw down that gangplank. Scraggy,” stammered 
Crabbe, and put the brat below ! I want to get these 
here mules in. The storm’ll be here in any minute.” 

Obediently the woman hastened to comply, and soon the 
tired mules munched their suppers, their long faces filling 
the window-gaps of the stable. 

Lem Crabbe followed the woman down the scow-steps 
amid gusty howls of the wind, and the night fell over the 
city and the black, winding river. The man ate his supper 
in silence, furtively casting his eyes now and then upon 
the slender figure of the woman. He chewed fast, utter- 
ing no word, and the creaking of the heavy jaws and the 
smacking of the coarse lips were the only sounds to be 
heard after the woman had taken her place at the table. 
Scraggy dared not yet begin to eat; for something new 
in her master’s manner filled her with sudden fear. By 
sitting very quietly, she hoped to keep his attention upon 
his plate, and after he had eaten he would go to bed. She 
was aroused from this thought by the feeble whimper of 
her child in the tiny room of the scow’s bow. Although 


4 


FROM THE VALLEY 


the woman heard, she made no move to answer the weak 
summons. 

She rose languidly as the child began to cry more loudly ; 
but a command from Lem stopped her. 

“ Set down ! ” he said. 

The brat’s a wailin’,” replied Scraggy hoarsely. 

“ Set down, and let him wail ! ” shouted Lem. 

Scraggy sank unnerved into the chair, gazing at him 
with terrified eyes. “Why, Lem, he’s too little to cry 
overmuch.” 

“ Keep a settin’, I say ! Let him yap ! ” 

For the second time that day Scraggy’s face shaded 
to the color of ashes, and her gaze dropped before the 
fierce eyes directed upon her. 

“Ye said more’n once, Scraggy,” began Lem, “ that I 
wasn’t to drink no more whisky. Whose money pays 
for what I drink? That’s what I want ye to tell me! ” 

“ Yer money, Lem dear.” 

And ye say as how I couldn’t drink what I pay for? ” 
“ Yep, I has said it,” was the timid answer. Ye drink 
too much — that’s what ye do ! Ye ain’t no mind left, ye 
ain’t ! And it makes ye ugly, so it does ! ” 

“ Be it any of yer business? ” demanded Lem insultingly, 
as he filled his mouth with a piece of brown bread. After 
washing it down with a drink of whisky, he finished, “Ye 
ain’t no relation to me, be ye ? ” 

The thin face hung over the tin plate. 

“Ye ain’t married to me, be ye? ” 

And, while a giant pain gnawed at her heart, she shook 
her head. 

“ Then what right has ye got to tell me what to do ? 
Shut up or get out — ye see ? ” 

He closed his jaw with a vicious snap, resting his half- 
dazed head on his mutilated arm. Louder came the 


OF THE MISSING ^ 

baby’s cries from the back room. Thinking Lem had 
ended his tirade, Scraggy made a motion to rise. 

Set still ! ” growled Crabbe. 

‘‘ Can’t I get the brat, Lemmy.?* ” she pleaded. “ He’s 
likely to fall offen the bed.” 

“ Let him fall. What do I care ? I want to tell ye 
somethin’. I didn’t bring ye here to this boat to boss 
me, ye see.?^ Ye keep yer mouth shet ’bout things what 
ye don’t like. Ye’re in my way, anyhow.” 

‘‘ Ye mean, Lemmy, as how I has to leave ye? ” 

Crabbe regarded the appealing face soddenly before 
answering. “ Yep, that’s what I mean. I’m tired of a 
woman allers a snoopin’ around, and a hundred times more 
tired of the brat.” 

“ But he’s yer own,” cried the woman, and ye did say 
as how ye’d marry me for his sake! Didn’t ye say it, 
Lem.^ He ain’t nothin’ but a baby, an’ he don’t cry much. 
Will ye let me an’ him stay. Deary.? ” 

‘‘Ye can stay tonight ; but tomorry ye go, and I don’t 
give a hell where, so long as ye leave this here scow, an’ 
I’m a tellin’ ye this — ” He halted with an exasperated 
gesture. “ Go an’ get that kid an’ shet his everlastin’ 
clack!” 

Scraggy bounded into the inner room, and, once out of 
sight of the watchful eyes of Lem, snatched up the infant 
and pressed her lips passionately to the rosy skin. 

“ Yer mammy’ll allers love ye, little ’un, allers, allers, 
no matter what yer pappy does ! ” 

She whispered this under her breath ; then, dragging the 
red shawl about her shoulders, appeared in the living-room 
with the child hidden from view. 

“ An’ I’ll tell ye somethin’ else, too,” burst in Lem, 
pulling out a corncob pipe : “ that it ain’t none of yer 
business if I steal or if I don’t. I was bom a thief, as 


6 


FROM THE VALLEY 


I told ye many a time, and last night ye made Lon Cronk 
and Eli mad as hell by chippin’ in.’’ 

“ They be bad men,” broke in the woman, and ye 
know — ” 

“ I know ye’re a damn blat-heels, and I know more’n 
that: that yer own pappy ain’t no angel, and ye needn’t 
,be a sayin’ my friends ain’t no right here — ye see.^ 
They be — ” 

“ They be thieves and liars, too,” interrupted Scraggy, 
allowing the sleeping babe to sink to her knees, ‘‘ and the 
prison’s allers a yawnin’ for ’em ! ” 

‘‘ Wall, I ain’t a runnin’ this boat for fun,” drawled 
Lem, “ nor for to draw lumber for any ole guy in Albany. 
Ye know that I draw it jest to hide my trade, and if, after 
ye leave here, ye open yer head to tell what ye’ve seen, 
ye’ll get this — ye see ? ” He held up the hooked arm 
menacingly. “ Ye’ve seen me rip up many a man with 
it, ain’t ye. Scraggy ? ” 

« Yep.” 

“ And I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ rippin’ up a woman, 
nuther. So, when ye go back to yer pa in Ithacy, keep yer 
mouth shet. . , . Will ye let up that there cryin’.^ ” 

Suppressing her tears. Scraggy shoved back a little 
from the table. “ I love ye, Lem,” she choked, “ and, if 
ye let me stay. I’ll do whatever ye say. I won’t talk 
nothin’ ’bout drink nor stealin’. If I go ye’ll get another 
woman! I know ye can’t live on this here scow without 
no woman.” 

“ And that ain’t none of yer business, nuther — ye 
hear? ” Lem grunted, settling deep into his chair, with an 
oath. “ I’ll get all the women in Albany, if I want ’em 1 I 
don’t never want none of yer lovin’ any more ! ” 

During this bitter insult a storm-cloud broke overhead, 
sending sheets of water into the river. The wind howled 
above Crabbe’s words, and he brought out the last of his 


OF THE MISSING 1 

sentence in a higher key. Suddenly the shrill whistle of 
a yacht brought the drunken man to his feet. 

‘‘ It’s some ’un alone in trouble,” he muttered. But his 
tones were not so low as to escape the woman. 

‘‘ Ye won’t do no robbin’ tonight, Deary — not to- 
night, will ye, Lem.^ ’Cause it’s the baby’s birthday.” 

Crabbe flung his squat body about toward the girl. 

Shet up about that brat [ ” he growled. “ I don’t care 
’bout no birthdays. I’ll steal, if the man has anything 
and he’s alone. I’ll kill him like this, if he don’t give up. 
Do ye want to see how I’d kill him.?^ ” 

His eyes blazing with fire, he lifted the steel hook, 
brandished it in the air, and brought it down close to the 
thin, drawn face. 

Scraggy, uttering a cry, sprang to her feet. “ Lemmy, 
Lemmy, I love ye, and the brat loves ye, too ! He’ll grin 
at ye any ole day when ye cluck at him. And I teached 
him to say ‘ Daddy,’ to surprise ye on his birthday. Will 
ye list to him — will ye ? ” 

In her eagerness to take his attention from the shriek- 
ing yacht, now close to the scow. Scraggy advanced to- 
ward the swaying man. She tried to lift brave eyes to his 
face ; but they were filled with tears as they met his drunken, 
shifting look. 

“ Lem, Lemmy dear,” she pleaded, ‘‘ we love ye, both 
the brat an’ me ! He can say ‘ Daddy ’ — ” 

“ Git out of my way, git out ! Some’n’ be a callin’. 
Git out, I say ! ” 

“Not yet, not yet — don’t go yet. Deary. 

Deary ! Wait till the kid says ‘ Daddy.’ ” She held out 
the rosy babe, pushing him almost under Lem’s chin. 
“ Look at him, Lemmy ! Ain’t — he — sweet.? He’s yer 
own pretty boy-brat, and: — ” 

Her loving plea was cut short; for the man, with a vi- 
cious growl, raised his stumped arm, and the sharp part 


8 


FROM THE VALLEY 


of the hook scraped the skin from her hollow cheek. It 
paused an instant on the level of her chin, then descended 
into the upturned chest of the child. With a scream, 
Scraggy dragged the boy back, and a wail rose from the 
tiny lips. Crabbe turned, cursing audibly, and stumbled up 
the steps to the stern of the boat. The woman heard him 
fall in his drunken stupor, and listened again and again 
for him to rise. Her face was white and rigid as she 
stopped the flow of blood that drenched the infant’s coarse 
frock. Then, realizing the danger both she and the child 
were in, since in all likelihood Lem would sleep but a few 
minutes, she slid open the window and looked out upon the 
dark river in search of help. Splashes of rain pelted her 
face, while a gust of wind caused the scow to creak dis- 
mally. Scraggy could see no human being, only the lights 
of Albany blinking dimly through the raging storm. An- 
other shrieking whistle warned her that the yacht was still 
near. Sailors’ voices shouted orders, followed by the chug, 
chug, chug of an engine reversed. 

But, in spite of the efforts of the engineer, the wind 
swung the small craft sidewise against the scow, and, 
stupefied. Scraggy found herself gazing into the face of 
another woman who was peering from the launch’s window. 
It was a small, beautiful face shrouded with golden hair, 
the large blue eyes widened with terror. For a brief in- 
stant the' two women eyed each other. Just then the 
drunken man above rose and called Scraggy’s name with an 
oath. She heard him stumbling about, trying to find the 
stairs, muttering invectives against herself and her child. 

Scraggy looked down upon the little boy’s face, twisted 
with pain. She placed her fingers under his chin, closed 
the tiny jaws, and wrapped the shawl about the dark head. 
Without a moment’s indecision, she thrust him through the 
window-space and said: 

“ Be ye a good woman, lady, a good woman ? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


9 


The owner of the golden head drew back as if afraid. 
“Ye wouldn’t hurt a little ’un — a sick brat.? He — 
he’s been hooked. And it’s his birthday. Take him, 
’cause he’ll die if ye don’t ! ” 

Moved to a sense of pity, the light-haired woman ex- 
tended two slender white hands to receive the human bun- 
dle, struggling in pain under the muffling shawl. 

“ He’s a dyin’ ! ” gasped Scraggy. “ His pappy’s 
a hatin’ him! Give him warm milk — ” 

Again the yacht’s whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning 
her last words. As the stern of the little boat swung 
round. Scraggy read, stamped in black letters upon it: 

Harold Brimbecomb, 
Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson, 

New York. 

The yacht shot away up the river, and was lost to the 
dull eyes that continued peering for a last glimpse of the 
phantom-like boat that had snatched her dying treasure 
from her. Then, at last, the stricken woman turned, 
alone, to meet Lem Crabbe. 

“ Where’s that brat ? ” he demanded in a thick voice. 

“ I throwed him in the river,” declared the mother. 
“ He were dead. Yer hook killed him, Lem. He’s gone! ” 
“ I’U kill his mammy, too ! ” muttered Crabbe. “ Git ye 
here — here — down here — on the floor ! ” 

His throat worked painfully as he threw the threatening 
words at her; they mingled harshly with the snarling of 
the wind and the sonorous rumble of the river. So great 
was Scraggy’s fright that she sped round the wooden 
table to escape the frenzied man. Taking the steps in two 
bounds, she sprang to the deck like a cat, thence to the 
bank, and sped away into the rain, with Lem’s cries and 
curses ringing in her ears. 


CHAPTER TWO 


F ive years later the Monarch was drawn up to the 
east bank of the Erie Canal at Syracuse. It was 
past midnight, and with the exception of those on 
Lem Crabbe’s scow the occupants of all the long line of 
boats were sleeping. Three men sat silently working in 
the hving-room of the boat. Lem Crabbe, Silent Lon 
Cronk, and his brother Eli, Cayuga Lake squatters, were 
the workers. At one end of the room hung a broken iron 
kettle. Into this Eli Cronk was dropping bits of gold 
which he cut from baubles taken from a basket. Crabbe, 
his short legs drawn up under his body, held a pair of 
pliers in his left hand, while caught firmly in the hook was 
a child’s tiny pin. From this he tore the small jewels, 
threw them into a tin cup, and passed the setting on to Eli. 
The other man, taciturn and fierce, was flattening out by] 
means of strong pressers several gold rings and bracelets. 
The three had worked* for many hours with scarcely a 
word spoken, with scarcely a recognition of one another. 

Of a sudden Eli Cronk raised his head and said, ‘‘ Lem, 
Scraggy was to Mammy’s t’other day.” 

‘‘ I didn’t know ye’d been to Ithacy? ” Lem made the 
statement a question. 

“ Yep, I went to see Mammy, and she says as how 
Scraggy’s pappy were dead, and as how the gal’s teched 
in here.” His words were low, and he raised his forefinger 
to his head significantly. 

“ She ain’t allers a stayin’ in the squatter country 
nuther,” he pursued. “ She takes that damn ugly cat of 
her’n and scoots away for a time. And none of ’em up 

10 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 11 


there don’t know where she goes. Hones’ Injun, don’t she 
never come about this here scow, Lem ? ” 

“ Hones’ Injun,” replied Lem laconically, without look- 
ing up from his work. 

Presently Eli continued; 

‘‘ Mammy says as how the winter’s cornin’, and some ’un 
ought to look out for Scraggy. She goes ’bout the lake 
doin’ nothin’ but hollerin’ like a hoot-owl, and she don’t 
have enough to eat. But she’s been gone now goin’ on two 
weeks, disappearin’ like she’s been doin’ for a few years 
back. Scraggy allers says she has bats in her head.” 

“ So she has bats,” muttered Lem, ‘‘ and she allers had 
’em, and that’s why I made her beat it. I didn’t want no 
woman ’bout me for good and all.” 

Lem Crabbe lifted his head and glanced toward the 
small window overlooking the dark canal. He had always 
feared the crazy squatter-woman whom he had wrecked by 
his brutality. 

“ I says that I don’t want no woman round me for all 
time,” he repeated. 

The third man raised his right shoulder at that ; but sank 
into a heap again, working more assiduously. The slight 
trembling of his body was the only evidence he gave that 
he had heard Crabbe’s words. Snip, snip, snip! went the 
bits of gold into the kettle, until Eli spoke again. 

“ Ye can’t tell me that ye ain’t goin’ never to get mar- 
ried, Lem ? ” 

Crabbe lifted his hooked arm viciously. “ I ain’t said 
nothin’ like that. I says as how Scraggy can keep away 
from my scow.” 

‘‘ Don’t she never come here no more.^ ” asked Eli in 
disbelief. 

“ Nope, not after them three beatin’s I give her. She 
kept a cornin’, and I had to wallop her. I’d do it again 
if she snoops ’bout here.” 


12 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“Ye beat her up well, didn’t ye, Lem? And she telled 
Mammy that yer brat were drowned one night in the 
river. Were it, Lem?” 

There was an expectant pause between his first and last 
questions, and Lem waited almost as long before he 
grunted : 

“ Yep.” 

“ Did ye throw it in when ye was drunk? ” 

“ Nope, he jest fell in — that’s all.” 

“ I guess that last heatin’ ye give Scraggy made her 
batty. Mam says that she ain’t no more sense than her 
cat.” 

“ Let her keep to hum then, and she won’t get beat. I 
don’t do no runnin’ after her ! ” 

Again there came a space of time during which Eli 
and Lem worked in silence. From far away in the city 
there came the sound of the fire whistle, followed by the 
ringing of bells. But not one of the men ceased his clip- 
ping to satisfy any curiosity he might have had. 

Suddenly Lem Crabbe spoke louder than he had before 
that evening. 

“Women ain’t no good, nohow! They don’t love no 
men, and men don’t love them. What’s the good of 
havin’ ’em round to feed and to bother a feller ’bout drink- 
in’ an’ things? Less a man sees of ’em the better! ” 

, The third man. Silent Lon Cronk, sunk lower at his 
work, even more fiercely flattening the gemless rings un- 
der the pressers. After a few moments he laid down his 
tools and began to stretch his long legs, scraping into 
a cup the bits of gold from his lap. 

“ I’ve been goin’ to ask ye fellers somethin’ for a long 
time. Might as well now as any other night, eh? ” 

“ Yep,” replied Eli eagerly. 

“ ’Tain’t nothin’ that will take any money out yer 
pockets ; ’twill put it in, more likely. We’ve been stealin’ 


OF THE MISSING 


13 


together for how long, Lem? How long we been pals?” 

“ Nigh onto ten years, I’m thinkin’. It were that year 
that Tilly Jacobson got burned, weren’t it? ” 

“ Yep, for ten years,”* replied Lon, ignoring Lem’s last 
query, ‘‘ and we’ve allers been hones’ with each other. I’ve 
been hones’ with both of ye, and ye’ve been hones’ with me. 
Eh? ” 

« Yep.” 

‘‘ Lem, do ye want all the swag in this here room, only 
a sharin’ up with Eli, without havin’ to share and share 
alike with me? ” 

A small jewel bounded from the steel hook, and the 
pliers fell from Lem’s fingers. Eli dropped back upon his 
bare feet. 

‘‘ What’s in the wind? ” demanded Lem. 

“ Only want ye to help me with a job some night that 
won’t be nothin’ to nuther of ye. But it’s all to me. Will 
ye? ” 

Lem wriggled nearer on the floor. “Ye mean stealin’, 
Lon ? ” he demanded. 

“ Yep.” 

“ And we ain’t to share up with it ? ” 

“Nope; but ye’re to have all that’s in this here room. 
If I tell ye, will ye help ? ” 

Crabbe looked at Eli, and a furtive look was shot back. 
Each was afraid of the other; but for the big, gloomy man 
before them they had vast respect. 

“What be ye goin’ to steal, Lon? Tell us before we 
say we’ll help.” 

“ Kids,” muttered Lon moodily. 

“ Live kids ? ” asked Eli, in great surprise. 

“Yep, live ones. What do I want with dead ones? 
Will ye help? ” 

“ Can’t see no good a swipin’ kids. What do ye want 
with ’em? ” 


14 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I’ll tell ye if ye sit up and listen to me.” 

Crabbe dropped his hooked arm and leaned against the 
wall. Eli hghted a pipe. A mysterious change had 
passed over Silent Lon’s face. The blue eyes glowed out 
from under a massive brow, and a mouth cruel and vin- 
dictive set firm-jawed over decayed teeth. 

“ I’ll tell ye this much for all time, Lem Crabbe : that ye 
lied when ye said that no woman could love no man — ye 
lied, I say 1 ” 

So fierce had he become that the man with the hook drew 
back into the comer and sat staring sullenly. Eli puffed 
more vigorously on his pipe. 

Lon went on : 

I had a woman oncet,” said he, “ and she were every 
bit mine. And she were little — like this.” 

The big fellow measured off a space with his hand and, 
straightening again, stood against the wall of the scow, 
his head reaching almost to the ceiling. 

“ She were mine, I say, and any man what says she 
weren’t • — ” 

Where be she? ” interrupted Lem curiously. 

Dead,” replied Lon, ‘‘ as dead as if she’d never been 
alive, as dead as if she’d never laid ag’in’ my heart when 
I wanted her ! God ! how I wanted her ! ” 

‘‘ But were she a woman ? ” asked Lem meditatively. 

‘‘ Yep, she were a woman, and I married her square, i 
did!” 

Lon stirred his dank black hair ferociously, standing it 
on end with horny fingers. I loved her, Lem Crabbe,” 
he continued hoarsely. “ I loved her, that I know ! And 
ye can let that devilish grin ride on yer lips when I say 
it and I don’t give a hell; but — but if ye say that she 
didn’t love me, if ye so much as smile when I say that she 
died a callin’ me, that she went away lovin’ me every 


OF THE MISSING 


15 


minute, I — I’ll rip offen yer hooked arm and tear out 
yer in’ards with it ! ” 

He was leaning against the wall no longer. [A.s he 
spoke, he came closer to the crouching canalman, his eyes 
straining from their sockets in livid hate. But he halted, 
and presently began to speak in a voice more subdued. 

“ But she’s dead, and I’m goin’ to get even. He killed 
her, he did, ’cause he wouldn’t let me see her, and he’s got 
to go the same way I went ! He’s got to tear his hair and 
call God to curse some ’un he won’t know who ! He’s got 
to want his kids like as how I’ve been wantin’ mine — ” 

“ Ye ain’t had no kids, Lon,” his brother broke in 
scoffingly. 

“ I would a had if he’d a kept his hands to hum and 
let me see her. But she were so little an’ young-like an’ 
afeard, and I telled her that night — I telled her when 
she whispered that she were a goin’ to have a baby, and 
said as how she couldn’t stand bein’ hurt — I says, 
‘ Midge darlin’, do it hurt the grass to grow jest ’cause 
the winds bend it double.'^ Do it hurt the little birds to 
bust out of their shells in the springtime.? ’ And she 
knowed what I meant, that not even what she were a 
thinkin’ of could hurt her if I was there close by.” 

His deep voice sank almost to a whisper, a hard, heavy 
sob closing his throat. He shook himself fiercely and 
continued : 

“ I took her up close ^ — God ! how close I tooked her 
up ! And I telled her that there wasn’t no pain big ’nough 
to hurt her when I were there — that even God’s finger 
couldn’t tech her afore it went through me. And she fell 
to sleep like a bird, a trustin’ me, ’cause I said as how 
there wasn’t goin’ to be no hurt. And all the time I 
knowed I were a lyin’ — I knowed that she’d suffer — ” 

His voice trailed into silence, the muscles of his dark 


16 


FROM THE VALLEY 


face twitching under the gnawing heart-pain; but after 
a time he conquered his feelings and went on: 

‘‘Then they corned and took me away for stealin’ jest 
that there week and sent me up to Auburn prison, and 
they wouldn’t let me stay with her. And I telled the state’s 
lawyer, Floyd Vandecar, this ; I says, ‘ Vandecar, ye be a 
good man, I be a thief, and ye caught me square, ye did. 
My little Midge be sick like women is sick sometimes, and 
she wants me, like every woman wants her man jest then, 
an’ if ye’ll let me see her, to stay a bit. I’ll go up for 
twice my time.’ But he jest laughed till — ” 

Lon stopped speaking, and neither listener moved. For 
a moment he lowered his head to the small boat window 
and gazed out into the vapors hanging low over the oppo- 
site bank. 

Turning again, he backed up to the scow’s side and pro- 
ceeded in a lower voice : 

“ When they telled me she were dead, they had to set 
me in the jacket, buckled so tight ye could hear my bones 
crack. The warden ain’t got no blame cornin’ from me, 
’cause I smashed his face afore he’d done tellin’ me. And 
I felled the keeper like that! ” He raised a knotty fist and 
thrust it forth. “ But it were all ’cause I wanted to be 
with her so, ’cause I couldn’t stand the knowin’ that she’d 
gone a callin’ and a callin’ me ! ” 

He was quiet so long that Eli Cronk drew his sleeve 
across his face to break the oppressive stillness. Here, in 
the dead of night, his somber brother had been trans- 
formed into another creature, — a passionate creature, re- 
sponding to the call of a dead woman, a man whose hatred 
would carry him to fearful lengths. 

The hoarse voice broke forth again : 

“Midge darlin’, dead baby, and all that ye had be- 
longin’ to me, I do it for you ! I’ll steal his’n, and they’ll 
suffer and suffer — ” 


OF THE MISSING 


17 


He tossed up his great head with a jerk, crushing the 
sentiment from his voice. 

“ But that don’t make no matter now,” he muttered. 

I’m goin’ to take his kids ! He’s got two, an’ he’s 
prouder’n a turkey cock of ’em. I’ll take ’em and I’ll 
make of ’em what I be ^ — I’ll make ’em so damn bad that 
he won’t want ’em no more after I get done with ’em! 
I’ll see what his woman does when she finds ’em gone! 
Will ye help, Lem — Eli.? ” 

Yep, by God, you bet ! ” burst from both men at once. 
I’ll take ’em to the squatter country, up to Mammy’s,” 
Lon proceeded, “ and, Eli, if ye’ll take one of ’em on the 
train up to McKinneys Point, I’ll take t’other one up the 
west side of the lake. I’ll pay all the way, Eli; it won’t 
be nothin’ out o’ yer pocket. We’ll tell Mammy the kids be 
mine » — see ? lAnd ye can have all there be in this here 
room. Be it a bargain.?” 

‘‘ Yep,” assured Eli, and Lem’s consent followed only 
an instant later. After that there were no sounds save 
the snip, snip, snip of the pliers and the occasional low 
grating from a jeweled trinket as the steel hook gouged 
into the metal. 


CHAPTER THREE 


A S Eli Cronk said, Scraggy Peterson left her lonely 
squatter home two weeks before with no companion 
but her vicious black cat. The woman had inter- 
vals of sanity, and during those periods her thoughts 
turned to a dark-haired boy, growing up in a luxurious 
home. In these rare days she donned her rude clothing, 
and with the cat perched close to her thin face walked 
across the state to Tarrytown. Several times during the 
five years after leaving Lem’s scow she walked to Tarry- 
town, returning only when she had seen the little boy, to 
take up her squatter life in her father’s hut. So secretive 
was she that no one had been taken into her confidence; 
neither had she interfered with her child in any way. 
Never once, hitherto, had her senses left her on those long 
country marches toward the east ; but often when she turned 
backward she would utter forlorn cries, characteristic of 
her malady. 

At eight o’clock, four hours before Lon Cronk opened 
his heart to his companions. Scraggy, footsore and weary, 
entered Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and seated herself on the 
damp earth to gather strength. By begging and stealing 
she had managed to reach her destination; but now for the 
first time on this j oumey the bats were in her head, sound- 
ing the walls of her poor brain with the ceaseless clatter of 
their wings. Still the mother heart called for its own, 
through the madness — called for one sight of Lem’s child 
and hers. At length after a long rest she turned into a 
broad path which she knew well, and did not halt until she 

18 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 19 


was staring eager-eyed into the window of Harold Brimbe- 
comb’s house which stood close to the cemetery. 

To the left of the Brimbecomb’s was the mansion, be- 
longing to the orphans of Horace Shellington. The 
young Horace and his sister Ann were the favorite com- 
panions of Everett Brimbecomb, now six years old. He 
was a strong, proud, handsome lad. Many conjectures 
had been made concerning him by the Tarrytown people, 
because one day five years before the delicate, light-haired 
wife of Mr. Brimbecomb had appeared with a dark-haired 
baby boy, announcing that from that day on he would 
take the place of her own child who had died a few months 
before. No person had told Everett that the millionaire 
was not his father, nor was he made to understand that 
the mother and the home were not his by right of birth. 
His bright mind and handsome appearance were the pride 
of his adopted mother’s life, and his rich father smiled only 
the more leniently when the lad showed a rebellious spirit. 
In the child’s dark, limpid eyes slumbered primeval pas- 
sions, needing but the dawn of manhood to break forth, 
perhaps to destroy the soul beneath their reckless domina- 
tion. 

Everett was entertaining Ann and Horace Shellington 
at dinner, and after the repast the youngsters betook them- 
selves to the large square room given to the young host’s 
own use. Here were multitudinous playthings and me- / 
chanical toys of all descriptions. For many minutes the 
children had been too interested to note that the shadows 
were grown long and that a somber gloom had settled 
down over the cemetery that lay just beyond the windows. 

Ann Shellington, a delicate little creature of eight, 
looked up nervously. ‘‘ Everett, draw down the curtain,” 
she said. “ It looks so ghostly out there ! ” 

Ann made a motion toward the window ; but the boy did 
jiot obey her. 


20 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Isn’t that just like a girl, Horace? ” Ke asked. I’m 
not afraid of ghosts. Dead people can’t walk, can they, 
Horace? ” 

The other boy answered No ” thoughtfully, as he 
started a miniature train across the length of the room. 

“ Then who is it that walks in the night out there ? ” 
insisted the girl. ‘‘ Lots of town people have seen it. 
It’s a woman with shaggy hair, and sometimes her eyes 
turn green.” 

“Pouf!” scoffed Everett. “My father says there 
aren’t any such things as ghosts. I wouldn’t be a fraidy 
cat, Ann.” 

“ I’m not a fraidy cat,” pouted the girl. “ I always 
go upstairs alone, don’t I, Horace? ” 

Another answer in the affirmative, and Horace pro- 
ceeded to roll the train back over the carpet. 

“ If you had any mother,” said Everett, “ she’d tell you 
there weren’t any ghosts. My mother tells me that.” 

“ I haven’t any mother,” sighed the little girl, listlessly | 
folding her hands in her lap. | 

“ Nor any father, either,” supplemented Horace, with > 
seemingly no thought of the magnitude of his statement. [ 
“ I don’t believe in ghosts, anyhow 1 ” i 

He glanced up as he spoke, and the train fell with a ^ 
bang to the floor. Everett Brimbecomb dropped the toy ; 
he held in his hand, and Ann bounded from her chair. A ;i 
white face with wide eyes, staring through scraggly gray f; 
hair, appeared at the window. For only an instant it 
pressed against the pane, then vanished as if it had never i 
been. 

“ It was a woman,” gasped Horace, “ or was it a — ” 

“ It wasn’t a ghost,” interrupted Everett stoutly. “ I [ 
dare follow it out there. Look at me ! ” 

He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, \ 
and opened the door leading to the narrow walk at thel 


OF THE MISSING 


side of the house. In another moment the watching boy 
and girl at the window saw him dart into the hedge and 
a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among 
the ancient graves. Suddenly from behind a tall monu- 
ment stole a figure, and as it approached the solemn eyes 
of the apparition smiled in duU wonder on Everett Brimbe- 
comb. 

Scraggy held out her hands. Don’t run away, little 
’un,” she whispered. “ There be bats flyin’ about in my 
head ; but my cat won’t hurt ye.” 

She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched 
on her shoulder ; but the cat with a hiss only raised himself 
higher. 

“ Don’t spit at the pretty boy, Kitty — pretty pussy, 
black pussy ! ” wheedled the woman. ‘‘ He won’t hurt ye, 
childy. Come nearer, will ye? This be a good cat.” 

“ Are you a ghost ? ” demanded Everett, edging into the 
light. 

‘‘ Nope, I ain’t no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye 
won’t tell no one that I speak to ye, will ye ? I ain’t doin’ 
no hurt.” 

“ What do you carry that cat for, and what’s your 
name.? ” demanded Everett insolently ; for the proud young 
eyes had noticed the disheveled figure. If any one of 
our men see you about here, they’ll shoot you. I’d shoot 
you and your cat, too, if I had my father’s gun ! ” 

Scraggy smiled wanly. “ Screech Owl’s my name,” said 
she. “ They call me that ’cause I’m batty. But ye 
wouldn’t hurt me, little ’un, ’cause I love ye. How old 
be ye ? ” 

‘‘ Six years old ; but it isn’t any of your business. 
Crazy people ought to be locked up. You’d better go 
away from here. My father owns that house, and — 
don’t you follow me through the hedge. Get back, I say ! 
If I call Malcolm — ” 


£2 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


Everett drew back through the box-hedge, and the boj 
and the girl at the window saw the woman squeeze in after 
him. In another moment the young heir to the Brimbe- 
comb fortune bounded through the doorway. His face 
was white; his eyes were filled with fear. 

“ Did you see that old woman ? ” he gasped. “ She tried 
to kiss me, and I punched her in the face, and her cat did 
this to my arm.’’ 

He pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a long scratch 
from wrist to elbow. 

“ Are you sure it wasn’t a ghost, Everett ” asked Ann, 
shivering. 

“ Of course, it wasn’t,” boasted Everett. “ It was only 
a horrid woman with a cat — that’s all.” 

As he closed the door vehemently, there drifted to the 
children from the marble monument and waving trees the 
faint wail of a night-owl. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


O N a fashionable street in Syracuse, Floyd Vandecar, 
district attorney of the city, lived in a new house, 
built to please the delicate fancies of his pretty 
wife. His career had been comet-like. Graduated from 
Cornell University and starting in law with his father, he 
had succeeded to a large practice when but a very young 
man. Then came the call for his force and strength to be 
used for the state, and, with a gratified smile, he accepted 
the votes of his constituents to act as district attorney. 
Then, as Lon Cronk had told, it came within the duty of 
the young lawyer to convict the thief of grand larceny 
committed three years before. After that Floyd married 
the lovely Fledra Martindale, and a year later his twin chil- 
dren were bom — a sturdy boy and a tiny girl. The 
children were nearly a year old when Fledra Vandecar 
whispered another secret to her husband, and Vandecar, 
lover-like, had gathered his darling into his arms, as if 
to hold her against any harm that might come to her. 
This happened on the morning following the night when 
Silent Lon Cronk told the dark tale of suffering to his 
pals. 

Just how Lon Cronk came to know the inner workings 
of the Vandecar household he never confided; but, biding 
his time, waited for the hour to come when the blow would 
be harder to bear. At last it fell, fell not only upon the 
brilliant district attorney, but upon his lovely wife and 
his hapless children. 

One blustering night in March, Lem Crabbe’s scow was 
tied at the locks near Syracuse. The day for the fulfil- 


24 


FROM THE VALLEY 


ment of Lon Cronk’s revenge had arrived. That after- 
noon Lon had come from Ithaca with his brother Eli to 
meet Lem. 

“Be ye goin’ to steal the kids tonight, Lon?” asked 
Lem. 

“ Yep, tonight.” 

“Why don’t ye take just one? It’d make ’em sit up 
and note a bit to crib, say, the boy.” 

“ We’ll take ’em both,” replied Lon decisively. 

“ And if we get caught ? ” stammered Crabbe. 

“We don’t get caught,” assured Lon darkly, “ ’cause 
tonight’s the time for ’em all to be busy ’bout the Vande- 
car house. I know, I do — no matter how ! ” 

Wee Mildred Vandecar was ushered into the world dur- 
ing one of the worst March storms ever known in the 
western part of New York. As she lay snuggled in laces 
in her father’s home, a tall man walked down a lane, four 
miles from Ithaca, with her sleeping sister in his arms. 
The dark baby head was covered by a ragged shawl; two 
tender, naked feet protruded from under a coarse skirt. 
Lon Cronk struggled on against the wind to a hut in the 
rocks, opened the door, and stepped inside. 

A woman, not unlike him, in spite of added years, rose 
as he entered. 

“ So ye corned, Lon,” she said. 

“ Course ! Did Eli get here with the other brat ? ” 

“ Yep, there ’tis. And he’s been squalling for the whole 
night and day. He wanted the other little ’un, I’m a 
thinkin’.” 

“ Yep,” answered Lon somberly, “ and he wants his 
mammy, too. But, as I telled ye before, she’s dead.” 

“ Be ye reely goin’ to live to hum, Lon? ” queried the 
old woman eagerly. 

“ Yep. And ye’ll get all ye want to eat if ye’ll 


OF THE MISSING 


^5 


take care of the kids. Be ye glad to have me stay to 
hum.^^ ” 

“ Yep, I’m glad,” replied the mother, with a pathetic 
droop to her shriveled lips. 

Just then the child on the cot turned over and sat up. 
The small, tear-stained face was creased with dirt and mo- 
lasses. Bits of bread stuck between fingers that gouged 
into a pair of gray eyes flecked with brown. Noting 
strangers, he opened his lips and emitted a forlorn wail. 
The other baby, in the man’s arms, lifted a bonny dark 
head with a jerk. 

For several seconds the babies eyed each other. Two 
pairs of brown-shot eyes, alike in color and size, bright- 
ened, and a wide smile spread the four rosy lips. 

“ Flea ! Flea ! ” murmured the baby on the bed ; and 
[ “ Flukey ! ” gurgled the infant in Lon’s arms. 

“ There ! ” cried the old woman. “ That’s what he’s 
been a cryin’ for. Set him on the bed, Lon, for God’s 
I sake, so he’ll keep his clack shet for a minute ! ” 

The baby called “ Flea ” leaned over and rubbed the 
I face of the baby called “Flukey,” who touched the dim- 
i pled little hand with his. Then they both lay down on a 
j rough, low cot in the squatter’s home and forgot their 
I baby troubles in sleep. 

I The kidnapping of the twins was discovered just after 
I Fledra Vandecar had presented her husband with an- 
other daughter, a tiny human flower which the strong 
man took in his hands with tender thanksgiving. The 
I three days that followed the disappearance of his chil- 
dren were eternal for Floyd Vandecar. The entire po- 
lice force of the country had been called upon to help 
bring to him his lost treasures. So necessary was it for 
him to find them that he neither slept nor worked. He 
had had to tell the mother falsehood after falsehood to 


^6 


FROM THE VALLEY 


keep her content. The children had suddenly become in- I 
fected with a contagious disease, and the doctor had said | 
that the new baby must not be exposed in any circum- i 
stances. After three long weeks of torture it devolved I 
upon him to tell his wife that her children were gone. 

‘‘ Sweetheart,” he whispered, sitting beside her and ; 
taking her hands in his, do you love and trust me very 
much indeed? ” 

The wondering blue eyes smiled upon him, and small ' 
fingers threaded his black hair. 

‘‘ I not only love you. Dear, but trust you always. I J 
don’t want to seem obstinate and impatient, Floyd, but I 
if I could see my babies just from the door I should be 
happy. And it won’t hurt me. I haven’t seen them in 
three whole weeks.” 

During the long, agonizing silence the young mother 
gathered something of his distress. 

“ Floyd, look at me ! ” 1 

Slowly he lifted his white face ^nd looked straight at [i 
her. t 


“ Floyd, Floyd, you’ve tears in your eyes I I didn’t 
mean to hurt you — ” 

She stopped speaking, and the pain in his heart reached 
hers. 

Floyd,” she cried again, ‘‘ is there anything the mat- 
ter with — with — ” 

‘‘ Hush, Fledra darling, little wife, will you be brave 
for my sake and for the sake of — her ? ” 

His eyes were still full of tears as he touched the bun- 
dle on the bed. 

“ But my babies ! ” moaned Mrs. Vandecar. “ If there 
isn’t anything the matter with my babies — ” 

“ I want to speak to you about our children. Dear.” 

“ They are dead? ” Mrs. Vandecar asked dully. “ My 
babies are dead? ” 


I' 






OF THE MISSING 


27 

At first Vandecar could scarcely trust himself to speak; 
but, curbing his emotion with an effort, he answered, “ No, 
no ; but gone for a little while.” 

His arms were tightly about her, and time and again 
he pressed his lips to hers. 

“ Gone where ” she demanded. 

“ Fledra, you must not look that way ! Listen to me, 
and I will tell you about it. I promise, Fledra. Don’t, 
don’t! You must not shake so! Please! Then you do 
not trust me to bring them back to you.?^ ” 

His last appeal brought the tense arms more limply 
about his neck. She had believed him absolutely when 
he said they were not dead. 

“ Am I to have them tonight ? ” 

“ No, dear love.” 

“ Where are they gone.? ” 

‘‘ The cradles were empty after little Mildred — ” 

‘‘They have been gone for — for three weeks!” she 
wailed. “ Floyd, who took them.? Were they kid- 
napped.? Have you had any letters asking for money.? ” 

Vandecar shook his head. 

“And no one has come to the house.? Tell me, 
Floyd ! I can’t bear it I Someone has taken my 
babies ! ” 

She raised herself on her arm wildly, fever brightening 
the anguished eyes. The husband with bowed head re- 
mained praying for them and especially for her. An- 
other cry from the wounded mother aroused him. 

“Floyd, they have been taken for something besides 
money. Tell me. Dearest! Don’t you know.?” 

Faithfully he told her that he could think of no human 
being who would deal him a blow like this; that he had 
thought his life over from beginning to end, but no new 
truth came out of his mental search. 

“ Then they want money ! Oh, you will pay anything 


^8 


FROM THE VALLEY 


they demand! Floyd, will they torture my baby boy and 
girl? Will they?” 

“ Fledra, beloved heart,” groaned Vandecar, “ please i 
don’t struggle like that! You’ll be very ill. I promised | 
you that you should have them back some day soon, very 
soon. Fledra, sweet wife, you still have the baby and me i 

— and Katherine.” 

“ I want my little children ! I want my boy and girl ! ” 
gasped Mrs. Vandecar. ‘‘I will have them, I will! No, 

I sha’n’t lie down till I have them! Fm going to find 
them if you won’t! I will not listen to you, Floyd, I , 
won’t ... I won’t — ” | 

Each time the words came forth they were followed 1 
by a moan which tore the man’s heart as it had never been ; 
torn before. For a single instant he drew himself to- 
gether, forced down the terrible emotion in his breast, and i 
leaned over his wife. 

“ Fledra, Fledra, I command you to obey me ! Lie i 
down! I am going to bring you back your babies.” 

He had never spoken to her in such a tone of authority. 
She sank under it with parted lips and swift-coming | 
breath. 

“ But I want my babies, Floyd ! ” she whispered. “ How i 
can I think of them out in the cold and the storm, perhaps ; 
being tortured — ” 

“ Fledra, sweet love, precious little mother, am I not , 
their father, and don’t you trust me? Wait — wait ^ j 
moment ! ” ! 

He moved the babe from her mother’s side, called the ; 
nurse, and in a low tone told her to keep the child until | 
he should send for her. Then he slipped his arms about I 
the wailing mother, lay down beside her, and drew her ' 
to his breast. 

During the next few hours of darkness he watched her 

— watched her until the night gave way to a shadowy 


OF THE MISSING 


29 


dawn. And as she slept he still held her, praying tensely 
that he might be given power to keep his promise to her. 
When she started up he gathered her closer and hushed 
her to sleep as a mother does a suffering child. How 
gladly he would have borne her larger share, yet more 
gladly would he have convinced himself that by morning 
the children would be again under his roof! 

At last Mrs. Vandecar awoke, calmer and with ready 
faith to acknowledge that she believed he would accom- 
plish his task. At her own request, he brought their tiny 
baby. 

“ Will you see Katherine, too, Fledra,” ventured Van- 
decar. “ The poor child hasn’t slept much, and she can’t 
be persuaded to eat.” 

Misery, deep and pathetic, flashed in the blue eyes 
Mrs. Vandecar raised to his. At length she faltered: 

“ Floyd, I’ve never loved Katherine as I should. I’m 
sorry. . . . Yes, yes, I will see her — and you will 

bring me my babies ! ” 

Vandecar stooped and kissed her; then, with a tighten- 
ing of his throat, went out. 

Five minutes later a small girl followed Mr. Vandecar 
in and stood beside the bed. Fledra Vandecar took the 
little girl-face in her hands and kissed it. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


T he years went on, with the gap still left wide in 
the Vandecar household. As month after month 
passed and nothing was heard of her children, Mrs. 
Vandecar gradually gave up hope. Her despair left a 
shadow of pathetic pleading in her blue eyes. This con- 
stant silent appeal whitened Floyd Vandecar’s hair and 
caused liim to apply himself to business more assiduously 
than ever. Never once in all those bitter years did he 
connect Lon Cronk with the disappearance of his babies. 

Meantime two sturdy children were growing to girl- 
hood and boyhood in the Cronk hut on Cayuga Lake. 
So safely had the secret of the kidnapping been kept 
from Granny Cronk and the other squatters in the settle- 
ment that the twins were regarded by all as the son and 
daughter of the squatter. 

The year following Flea’s and Flukey’s fourteenth birth- 
day the boy was taken into his foster-father’s trade of 
thieving. At first he was allowed only to enter the houses 
and deftly unbar the door for an easier egress for Eli 
Cronk and Lem Crabbe. Later he was commanded to 
snatch up anything of value he could. Many were the 
times he wept in boyish bitterness against the commands of 
Lon, revealing his sorrows to Flea, who listened moodily. 

‘‘ I wouldn’t steal nothin’ if I was you,” she said again 
and again. But Flukey one day silenced this reiteration 
by confiding to her that Pappy Lon had threatened to 
turn her to his trade if he rebelled. 

One afternoon in late September, Flea left the hut and 
went out to the lake. Flukey, Lon Cronk, and Lem Crabbe 

30 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 31 


had gone to Ithaca to buy groceries, and it was time 
for them to return. A chill wind swung the girl’s skirt 
about her knees, and for some minutes she squatted on the 
beach, keeping her eyes upon the lighthouse in the dis- 
tance. 

For the last year Flea had been rapidly growing into 
a woman. Granny Cronk had proudly noted that the 
fair face had grown lovelier, that the ebony curls fell 
about her shoulders. The one dream the girl had had 
was a dream of long hair, ankle dresses, and girl’s shoes. 
Until that year Lon had insisted that her hair be kept 
short, and had himself trimmed the ebony curls every 
month. Now, in the damp air, they twisted and turned 
in the wildest profusion. The coming of womanhood had 
thrown new light into the clear-gray, brown-flecked eyes. 
At this moment she was wondering what she and her 
brother would do if Granny Cronk died. She shivered 
as she thought of life in the hut without the protecting 
old woman. 

Suddenly, from above the Lehigh Valley tracks, she 
heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. Her attention taken 
from her meditations, she lifted her pensive gaze from the 
lake, wheeled about, and looked for the horseman. Flea 
knew that it was not a summer cottager; for -many days 
before the last of them had taken his family to Ithaca. 
Perhaps some chance wayfarer had followed the wrong 
road. Just below the tracks she caught a glimpse of a 
black horse, and as it came nearer Flea noted the rider, 
a young man whose kindly dark eyes and white teeth 
dazzled her. His straight legs were incased in yellow 
boots, his fine form in a tightly fitting riding-coat. Flea 
had never seen just such a man, not even in the infrequent 
visits she made to Ithaca. Something in his smile, as he 
drew up his steed and looked down upon her, affected her 
with a curious thrill. 


S2 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘ Little girl, will you tell me if I am on the right road 
to Glen wood? ” 

Flea’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. His 
voice, cultivated and deep, made her forget for a moment 
the question he had asked her. Then she remembered; 
but instinctively she did not reply in her usual high 
squatter tones. 

‘‘ Nope, ye got to go back, and turn to the right at the 
top of the hill. Ye can’t go round the shore from here; 
the water’s too high.” 

This impulsive desire to choose her words and to modu- 
late her voice came from a sudden realization that there 
lived another class of people outside the squatter settle- 
ment of whom she knew little. 

“ Thank you very much,” replied the questioner. 
“Now I understand that if I ride to the top of the hill I 
and turn to the right. I’ll reach Glenwood? ” 

“ Yep,” answered Flea. ' 

Her embarrassment caused her lips to close over the ' 
one word. Wonderingly she watched the man ride away 
until the sight of his dark horse was lost in the trees above i 
the tracks. 

“ It were a prince,” she stammered in a low tone, “ a 
real live prince ! ” ! 

Flea contemplated the darkening hills with moody eyes. 
She counted slowly one by one the towers of the university i 
buildings. This she did merely from habit; for the ex- j 
pression remained unchanged on her melancholy face. ' 
At length the gray eyes dropped to the water and fixed i 
their gaze upon a fishing boat turning toward the shore. 1 
A few moments before it had been but a black speck near n 
the lighthouse; but as it came nearer Flea distinctly saw ii 
the two men and the boy in it. Upon the bow of the !| 
boat was perched Snatchet, a yellow terrier, his short j| 
ears perked up with happiness at the prospect of sup- 


OF THE MISSING 


S3 


per. When the craft touched shore the girl rose and 
ran toward it. Almost in fear, she searched the face of 
the youth at the rudder with eyes so like his own that 
they seemed rather a reflection than another pair. She 
said no word until she took her position beside the boy 
on the shore, slipping her hand into his as she walked 
by his side toward the hut. 

“ Be ye back for the night. Flukey.? ” she asked. 

“ Nope.” 

“Where ye goin’ after supper.?” 

“ To Ithaca.” 

“ Air ye leg a hurtin’ ye much.? ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ Granny Cronk says as how yer pains be rheumatiz. 
If ye stay in out of the night air, ye’ll get well.” 

“ Pappy Lon won’t let me,” sighed Flukey. 

He sank down on the cabin threshold, and as he spoke 
drew a blue trouser leg slowly up. 

“ Damn knee ! ” he groaned. “ It gets so twisted ! 
And sometimes I can’t walk.” 

“ Be ye goin’ to steal again tonight.? ” asked the girl, 
bending toward him. 

“ Yep, with Pappy Lon and Lem. I hate it all, I 
do ! ” he cried impetuously. 

“ What makes ye go .? Take a lickin’, an’ I bet ye’ll 
stay to hum. I would ! ” 

With a spiteful shake of the black curls, she rubbed 
a bare toe over Snatchet’s yellow back. 

“ I wish I was a boy,” she went on. “ While I hate 
stealin’, I’d do it to have ye stay to hum. Flukey; then 
ye’d get well. And — ” 

She broke off abruptly and lowered her eyes to the 
shore, where Lem and Lon were in earnest conversation. 
At the same moment Lon looked up and shouted a com- 
mand : 


S4* 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Flea gal, Flea gal, come down here to me ! ” 

Flea dropped the hand of her brother, moved directly 
to the water’s edge, and stood quietly until Lon chose to 
speak. 

Lem Crabbe’s eyes devoured the slight young figure, 
his smile contorting the comers of his whiskered mouth. 
One hand rested on the bow of the boat, while the long, | 
rusty hook, sharp at the point and thick ironed at the ! 
top, protmded from the other coat-sleeve. ! 

At last Lon Cronk began to speak deliberately, and i 
the girl gave him her attention. i 

‘‘Flea, ye be a woman now, ain’t ye? he said “Ye 
be fifteen this cornin’ Saturday.” 

“ Yep, Pappy Lon.” 

“ And yer brother be fifteen on the same day, you I 
bein’ twins.” 

“ Yep, Pappy Lon.” 

“ Yer brother’s been taken into my trade,” proceeded 
the squatter, “ and it ain’t the wust in the world — that 
of takin’ what ye want from them that have plenty. It’s | 
time for ye to be doin’ somethin’, too. Ye’ll go to Lem’s j 
scow. Flea.” I 

“ To Lem’s scow ? ” exclaimed Flea. “ That ain’t no I 
place for a kid, and nobody ain’t a wantin’ me, nuther! ! 
I know there ain’t ! ” 

“ Ain’t there nobody a wantin’ her in yer scow, Lem 
Crabbe ? ” grinned Lon. 

“Ye bet there be! ” answered Lem, with an evil leer. i 

Flukey, who had approached the group, placed him- 
self closer to his sister. “ Who — who be w'antin’ Flea, 
Lem Crabbe.?” he demanded. i 

“ It’s me, it’s me ! ” replied Lem, wheeling savagely 
about. 

For a short space of time nothing but the splash of 
the waves could be heard as they rolled white on the 


OF THE MISSING 


S5 


shore. A change passed over Flea, and she clutched 
fiercely at her brother’s fingers. It was as if she had 
said, “ Help me. Flukey, if ye can ! ” But she did not 
speak the words ; only stared at the hook-armed man with 
strained eyes. 

‘‘ Flea ain’t no notion of goin’ away right yet, Pappy 
Lon,” burst out Flukey, catching his breath after the 
shock. ‘‘She’s perf errin’ to stay with us; and I’ll work 
for her keep, if ye let her stay.” 

“ Nope, I ain’t no notion o’ marryin’,” repeated Flea, 
encouraged by her brother’s insistence. 

“ Who said as how Lem wanted ye to marry him ? ” 
sneered Lon, eying her from head to foot. “ Yer notions 
one way or nother ain’t nothin’ to me, my gal. Ye’ll go 
with the man I choose for ye, and that’s all there be to 
it!” 

Dazed by his first words, she whispered, “ I hate Lem 
Crabbe ! ” 

As if by its own volition, the hook rose threateningly 
to within a short distance of the fair, appealing face. But 
it dropped again, as Lon repeated: 

“ That ain’t nothin’ to do with the thing, nuther, Flea. 
A man ain’t a seekin’ for a lovin’ woman. He wants her 
to take care of his shanty and what he gets by hard work, 
he does, and he gives her victuals and drink for the doin’ 
of it. That’s enough for you, or for any gal what’s a 
squatter.” 

So well did Flea realize the powerlessness of the rigid 
boy at her side to help her, that she dropped his hand 
and alone went nearer to the thief. 

“ Can’t I stay with you and with Granny Cronk for 
another year.^^ Can’t I stay.^ Can’t I, Pappy Lon.^ ” 

“ Nope, I wouldn’t keep ye in the shanty if ye had 
money for yer keeps. Ye go on a Saturday to Lem’s 
boat to be his woman, ye see.?^ ” 


36 


FROM THE VALLEY 


The iron hook by this time was hanging loosely by> 
Lem’s side; but a cruel expression had gathered on thej: 
sullen face. A frown drew the crafty eyes together, be-:i 
speaking wrath at the girl’s words. I 

That he would have her at the bidding of her father, j 
Lem never doubted. During the last three years he had- 
been resolved to take her home in due time to be hisij 
woman. To subdue the proud young spirit, to make heri 
the mother of children like himself, — the boys destined 
to be thieves, and the girls squatter women, — was his one; 
ambition. That he was old enough to be her father made) 
no difference to him. 

He was watching her as she stood in the darkeningi 
twilight, gloating over the thought that his vicious dreams' 
were so near their fulfilment. ; 

Flea was looking into the eyes of her father, and hel 
looked back at her with an impudent smile. i 

“ Ye don’t like the thought of this cornin’ Saturday, 
Flea — ^eh.?*” he asked slowly. “But, as I said before,' 
a gal hain’t nothin’ to do with the notions of her daddy, i 
And Granny Cronk’ll give ye a pork cake to take to 
Lem’s, and he’ll let ye eat it all to yerself. Eh, Lem? ” | 

“ Yep,” grunted Lem. “ She eats the pork cake if she) 
will; but after that — ” 

Suddenly Lon silenced Lem’s words with a wag of his. 
head toward the girl. “ Flea,” he said, “ I telled Lem 
as how ye’d kiss him tonight.” ! 

The words stunned the girl, they were so unexpected,! 
so terrible. She turned her eyes upon Lem and fearfullyj 
studied his face. He was gazing back, his open lips show-i 
ing his discolored, broken teeth. The coarse, red hair 
sprinkled with gray gave a fierce aspect to his whole 
appearance, and from the emotion through which he was 
passing the muscles under his chin worked to and fro. 
With a grin he advanced toward her. Flea fell back 


OF THE MISSING 


37 


against Flukey. The boy steadied the trembling, slender 
body. 

“ I ain’t a goin’ to kiss ye,” she muttered. “ I hate 
yer kisses ! I hate ’em ! ” 

“Ye’ll kiss him, jest the same!” ordered Lon. 

Closer and closer Lem came toward the girl; then sud- 
denly he sprang at her like a tiger, crushing the slim 
figure against his breast. For a moment Flea was en- 
circled by his left arm. Then she turned fiercely to the 
ugly face so close to hers, and in another instant had bitten 
it through the cheek. He dropped her with a yelling oath, 
and Flea sprang back, turning flashing eyes upon Lon. 

“ That’s how I kiss him afore I go to him,” she 
screamed, “ and worser and worser after he takes me ! ” 

Lon laughed wickedly. He had not expected such a 
display of spirit. “ I guess ye’ll have to wait, Lem,” he 
said; “fer— ” 

Flea did not hear the rest of the sentence; for she and 
Flukey were hurrying toward the hut. 

Lem stood wiping the blood from his face. “ The cussed 
spit-cat 1 ” he hissed. “ When I take her in hand — ” 

“ When ye take her in hand, Lem,” interrupted Lon 
darkly, “ ye can do what ye like. Break her spirit 1 
Break her neck, if ye want to! I don’t care.” 

The children found Granny Cronk with bent shoulders 
and palsied hands toiling over the supper. About the 
withered neck hung a red handkerchief, and on top of 
the few gray whisps of hair rested a spotless cap. She 
grunted as the children entered the room like a whirlwind 
and climbed the long ladder to the loft," where for some 
time the low voice of Flukey and the sobs of Fl^ could 
be heard in the kitchen below. 

It was not until her son had entered and hung his cap 
upon the peg that the old woman ventured to speak. 


38 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Be Flea in a tantrum, Lon ? ” 1 

“ Yep, ye bet she be! ” 

“ Have ye been a beatin’ her? ” 

“ Nope, I never teched her,” replied the squatter; “ but 
I will beat her, if she don’t do what I tell her. No matter ;i 
how she kicks ag’in’ my notions, she has to do ’em, | 
Granny ! ” 

“ Yep, I know that ; but I asked ye what she was a f 
blubberin’ about.” j 

‘‘ ’Cause I says as how on Saturday she’s got to go j 
and be Lem’s woman — that’s what I says.” 

‘‘ Lem’s woman ! Do ye mean that she’s got to go 
away ? ” 

“ Yep, with Lem Crabbe,” replied Cronk ; “ he’s to be * 
her man on her next birthday. I bet he brings the kid 
to his likin’ 1 ” 

‘‘ Lem’s a bad man, Lon,” replied Mrs. Cronk, and ye 
be one, too, if ye be my own son, and Flea’s your own 
flesh and blood, and I like her. It would be a good thing 
if ye let her stay to hum while I be a livin’; and I mean 
what I say, and I’m yer mammy, and that’s the truth 1 ” 

‘‘ Mammy or no mammy,” answered Cronk sullenly, ^ 
“ Flea goes to Lem, and ye makes her a pork cake, which | 
she can hog down at one gulp, for all I care — the damn | 
brat! I say it, and Lem says it. He’ll dry her tears \ 
after she’s left hum, I’m a guessin’ ! ” 

Seeing the futility of arguing the question, Mrs. Cronk 
placed the fish and beans on his plate and, with a shrill 
cry to Flea and Flukey, sat down to eat. | 

As he stumbled along the rocks to the scow, Lem Crabbe 
uttered dark threats against the girl who had bitten him. 
Her temper and the spontaneous deed that had marked his 
face did not lessen his longing to call her his woman, nor 
did it take the fever of desire from his veins. It had 


OF THE MISSING 


39 


strengthened his passion to such a degree that he now 
determined to permit nothing to interfere with his plans. 
For at least three years he had lived on the promise of 
Lon Cronk that he should have the girl for weal or woe. 
Six months before he had offered Lon anything within 
his power to set the day of Flea’s coming to him nearer; 
but the thief had shaken his head with the thought that 
Flea as a girl would not suffer through indignities as she 
would as a woman. He felt no remorse for the other girl 
that he had ruined so many years back; but he kept out 
of the way of the crazy woman who sometimes crossed his 
path. 

Tonight Lem entered the living-room of his boat, 
muttering an oath that ended in a groan, dropped the 
basket on the table, and struck a match. He was touch- 
ing it to the candle, when a sound in the corner startled 
him. He turned as he finished his task and saw the 
brilliant eyes of Scraggy’s cat as the animal sat perched 
on the woman’s shoulder. The presence of Screech Owl 
surprised him so that he did not move for a moment, and 
she spoke first: 

‘‘ I hain’t seed ye in such a long time, Lem, that I 
thought I’d come and let ye see my new kitty. He ain’t 
but two years old.” 

Lem took a long breath. At first he thought that this 
must be Scraggy’s wraith come to haunt him after some 
horrible lonely death. He had far rather deal with a living 
Scraggy than a dead one, and at once recovered his com- 
posure. 

“ I hain’t sent for ye, have 1 ? ” he asked, hanging up 
his coat. “ And if I ain’t sent for ye, then ye needn’t be 
sneakin’ round.” 

‘‘ I’ve a lot to say to ye,” sighed Scraggy mournfully, 
“ and I thought as how the night was better than the day. 
It’s dark now.” 


40 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Then ye’d better trot hum,” put in Lem, “ if ye don’t 
want another heatin’.” 

“ I ain’t goin’ to get no heatin’ tonight,” assured the 
woman, throwing one arm over the bristling cat, ‘‘ ’cause 
I corned to tell ye somethin’.” 

Lem turned on her sharply; for Scraggy seemed to 
speak sanely. 

“ The bats be gone from my brain, Lem, and I want 
to tell ye somethin’ ’bout Flea — Flea Cronk — and to tell 
ye that I be hungry.” 

“What about Flea.^ ” snapped Lem. “Ye’re bein’ 
hungry ain’t nothin’ to do with me. If ye got somethin’ 
to tell me that I want to hear, lip it out, and then scoot; 
for I ain’t no time to bother with ye. My time’s precious, 
Scraggy — see ? ” 

“ Yep ; but I ain’t goin’ to tell ye nothin’ till ye give mei 
somethin’ to eat.” 

She cast ravenous eyes on the small bundles Lem was, 
placing on the table. 

“I’ll give ye a piece of bread an’ ’lasses,” was the! 
grudging answer. “ And mind ye, I wouldn’t do that but 
I want to hear what ye say ’bout Flea.” 

Avidly the woman ate the thick slice of bread and 
treacle, offering a bit now and then to the cat. When 
she had devoured it Lem spoke: 

“Now wash it down with this here water and tell mei 
yer tale — and if ye lie to me I’ll kill ye ! ” 

“ I ain’t a goin’ to lie to ye — I’ll tell ye the truth, I 
will!” 

They both drank, the man from the bottle, the woman; 
from a tin cup. Presently she asked: 

“ Be ye goin’ to marry Flea Cronk ? ” 

“ Who’s been carryin’ tales to ye ? ” shouted Lem, 
bounding from his chair. “Ye better be a mindin’ yer 


OF THE MISSING 


41 


own affairs, or ye’ll be havin’ nothin’ but bats in yer head 
till ye die. Scoot for hum! Ye hear.^ ” 

“Yep; but I ain’t goin’ jest yet. Ye want to hear 
’bout Flea, don’t ye.^’ ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ Then set down an’ I’ll tell ye.” 

Lem, growling impatience, seated himself. 

“ Flea Cronk ain’t for you, Lem ! ” 

“ Who said as how she ain’t ” demanded Lem, starting 
up. The cat spat viciously, startled by the sudden move- 
ment. “ I wish ye’d left that damn cat to hum ! I hain’t 
no notion to be bit by no cat.” 

“ Kitty won’t bite ye if ye let me alone — will ye, Kitty ? 
I ain’t never afeard of nothin’ when I got him with me — ^ 
be I, Kitty, pretty pussy 

“ Stop a cooin’, ye bughouse woman,” snarled Crabbe, 
“ and tell me what ye got to ! ” 

“ I said Flea wasn’t for you.” 

“Ye lie!” 

He made a desperate move toward her ; but the cat rose 
threateningly, its hair standing on end in a mound upon 
the humped back. Lem fell away with an oath, and 
Scraggy, smiling wanly, petted the vicious brute. 

“ I said ye was to keep away, Lem. Wait till I get 
done. Flea’s got to be some ’un else’s, not yers.” 

“ Who’s ? ” Lem’s voice rose ; but he did not advance 
toward her. 

“ I dunno ; but I seed him. He rides a black horse, 
and has a fine, big body and wears yeller boots. This 
afternoon when the day was darkenin’ I saw him from the 
railroad bed, and I saw Flea’s spirit a travelin’ with him. 
I know that ye cared for her this long time back; but ye 
can’t have her.” 

“ Who be the feller ” demanded Lem, frowning. 


42 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I said I didn’t know, and I don’t.” ; 

“ Were Flea with him? ” 

“Nope; not in her body, but jest in her spirit.” I 

“ Rats ! Scoot along with ye, and take yer cat and i 
get out ! ” 

Scraggy had not noticed the blood oozing from Lem’s ' 
cheek until she had received her dismissal. She passed a 
long, red, bare arm about the animal and asked: 

“ Who bit yer cheek, Lem? ” | 

“ Who says it were bit ? ” ■ 

“ I say it. I see white teeth a goin’ in it. And I see ji 
red lips ag’in’ it with deadly hate.” ! 

Lem glanced forbiddingly at the woman. . “ The bats i 
be a cornin’ again,” he muttered, “ and there ain’t no 
tellin’ what she’ll do. If it wasn’t for that blasted cat, 
I’d chuck her in the lake ! ” 

But he dared not caiTy out his threat; for Scraggy i 
was muttering to herself, the cat rebuffing her rough j 
handling. j 

In another minute she rose and made toward the steps. 
Her eyes fell upon Lem, and sanity flashed back into f 
them. j 

“ I gived the boy to the woman — with golden hair,” 
she stammered, as if some power were forcing the words j 
from her. “ Ye would have killed him. Yer kid be i 
a livin’, Lem ! ” 

Truth rang in her statement, and the man got to his 
feet abruptly. He had almost forgotten the black-haired f 
little boy. Only when Scraggy’s name was mentioned to !j 
him did he remember. But the woman’s words awoke a i 
new feeling in his heart, and mentally he counted back the 
years to the date of his son’s birth. Scraggy was still 
looking at him in bewilderment, scarcely realizing that her 
story had been told to the enemy of her child. She bat- 


OF THE MISSING 


43 


tied with a desire to blurt out the whole truth; but the 
man’s next words silenced her. 

“ Who be the golden-haired woman, Scraggy.? ” he 
wheedled. 

“What woman — what golden-haired woman?” 

“ The woman who has our brat.” 

Like lightning a sudden joy filled Scraggy’s heart. 
Her benumbed love for Lem Crabbe grew mighty in a 
moment and rushed over her. His words were softly 
spoken with an old-time inflection. She sank down with 
a cry. She was so near him that the cat rose and spat 
venomously. Lem’s curses brought Scraggy out of her 
dreams. 

“ Chuck that damn cat to the bank,” ordered Lem, “ if 
ye want to stay with me ! Do ye hear? Chuck him out ! ” 

“ Nope, I ain’t a goin’ to ! I’m go in’ hum.” 

“ Not till ye tell me where the boy is. Didn’t ye throw 
him in the river? ” 

“ Nope.” 

“ What did ye do with him ? ” 

“ Gived him away.” 

“Ye lie ! That winder was open, and the river was 
dark as hell. Ye thro wed him in, I tell ye ! ” 

“ Nope; I gived him to a woman ^ — ” 

She stopped and edged toward the stairs, all her old 
fear of him returning. Reaching the short flight, she 
bounded up, the cat clinging to her sleeve. Lem did not 
follow; for the crazy woman had frightened him. He 
stood with hushed breath, holding grimly to the wooden 
table. A voice from the deck of the scow came down to 
him. 

“ I gived him to a rich woman on a yacht. He’s rich 
with mints of money. Yer kid’s a gentleman, Lem 
Crabbe ! ” 


U FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


He sprang after her to the deck; but nothing greeted 
him save the cry of an owl from the ragged rocks and 
the glistening green of the cat’s eyes as Scraggy hurried 
away. 


CHAPTER SIX 


A fter eating his supper, Lon, sullen and moody, 
looked out upon the lake, reviewing in his mind 
the terrible revenge he was soon to complete. He 
took his pipe slowly from his pocket and filled it with 
coarse tobacco. Soon gray rings lifted themselves to 
the ceiling and faded into the rafters. As the smoke 
curled upward, his mind became busy with the past, and 
so vivid was his imagination that outlined in the smoke 
rings that floated about him was a girlish face — a face 
pale and wan, but a loving, sweet one to him. He could 
see the fair curls which clung close to the head; the eyes, 
serious but kind, seemed to strike his memory in unfor- 
gotten glances. To another than himself the smoke- 
formed face would have been plain, perhaps ugly, the 
weakness of her race showing in every feature; but not to 
him. So intent was he with these thoughts that the pres- 
ent dissolved completely into the past, and beside him stood 
a small, fond woman. In his imagination she had risen 
from that grave which he had never been able to find in 
the Potter’s Field. The personality of his dead wife 
called upon his senses and made itself as necessary to him 
then as in the moment of his first rapture when she had 
placed her womanly might upon his soul. 

His revenge upon Floyd Vandecar would be finished 
when the gray-eyed Flea, so like her own father, went 
away with the one-armed man, to eke out her destiny amid 
the squalor of the thief’s home. 

For months he had been enthralled with the satisfaction 
of the last act in the one terrible drama of his life; for 

45 


46 


FROM THE VALLEY 


it had played with his rude fancy as a tigress does with ) 
her prey, inflaming his hatred and keeping alive his de- | 
sire for retaliation. Flukey was a good thief, although I 
obeying him at the end of the lash, and Flea would re- ( 
ceive her portion of hate’s penalty on her fifteenth 
birthday. 

Cronk did not heed the pitter-patter of his mother’s * 
feet as she cleared the table, nor did he hear the droning 
of the twin’s voices in the loft above. He was thinking ! 
of how the dead woman with her child — his child, the ; 
one small atom he would have loved better than himself — J 
would be well avenged when Flea went away with Lem. i 

Lon had kept track of the doings of the young district 
attorney. He knew that he had gone to the gubernatorial 1 
chair but the year before. The squatter smiled gloomily 
as he remembered the words of a newspaper friendly to 
Vandecar, in which he had read that Syracuse was full of i 
painful memories for the new governor, and that Floyd J 
Vandecar had taken his family down the Hudson, to make j? 
another home at Tarry town, where Harold Brimbecomb, I 
a youthful friend, resided. Another expression of dark 
gratification flitted over Lon’s heavy features as he re- r 
viewed again the purport of the article. It had plainly !; 
said that in the new home there would be fewer visions of ^ 
a lost boy and girl to haunt the afflicted parents. Lon 
realized in his savage heart that the change of scene would j 
not lessen the grief of the stricken family. It was his |j 
one satisfaction to brood over the bereaved father and I 
mother, delighting in his part of the tragedy and enjoy- 
ing every evidence of it. Never for a moment did he think I 
gently of the children, but only of the woman sacrificed. |l 
On this night she stood so close that, with a groan, he put t 
out his hand. His flesh tingled ; for he felt that he could | 
almost touch her, and his heart clamored for the warmth | 
of the tender body he had never forgotten. 


OF THE MISSING 


47 


God ! ” he moaned between his teeth, “ if I could tech 
her once, jest for once. I’d let Flea stay to hum! ” 

Did ye speak, Lon ? ” asked Granny Cronk. 

‘‘Nope; I were only a thinkin’.” 

“ Have ye changed yer mind ’bout Flea ? ” 

“ Nope, Mammy, and ye keep yer mouth shet if ye want 
me to stay to hum! See? ” 

Granny Cronk grunted a reply, and passed into the 
back room. Five minutes later the rope cot creaked under 
her weight. 

Wrapped in his somber musings, Lon did not hear Flea 
approach him until she was at his elbow. With her com- 
ing, the sweet phantom, to which he grimly held in his 
moments of solitude, fled back to its unknown grave. 
Never had his loved one been so near, so real; never be- 
fore had she touched his writhing nature in all its primeval 
strength. The girl before him was so like the man who 
had withstood his agony that he clenched his fist and rose 
from his chair. Flea was looking at him in mute appeal; 
but before she could speak he had lifted his fist and 
brought it down upon the lovely, beseeching face. The 
blow stunned her; but only a smothered moan fell from 
her lips. 

“I hate ye!” growled Lon. “Get back to the loft 
afore I kill ye!” 

Slowly Flea was regaining her senses, and the squat- 
ter’s curses struck her ears like a whiplash. Bitter, 
scalding tears blinded her as, holding her thin skirt to 
her bleeding nose, she stumbled up the ladder. With 
anger unappeased, Lon, staggering like one drunken, took 
his cap from the peg and went out. 

When Lon called Flukey, Flea followed her brother into 
the night, while he arranged the thief’s tools in the boat. 
There was a dull roar and rush of the wind, as it tossed 


48 


FROM THE VALLEY 


the lake into gigantic wliitecaps, which added to the girl’s 
suffering. Her young soul was smarting beneath the jr 
scathing injustice. As she watched Lem and Lon pull !| 
away, with Flukey at the rudder, Flea squatted on the if* 
beach, bent her head, and wept long and wildly. 

A gentle, sympathetic touch of a warm tongue made : 
her put out her arms and draw Snatchet into them. It \ 
comforted her to feel the faithful heart beating against •: 
her own. That Lon disliked to have her and Flukey about l 
him, she knew; but she had not known until today that fc 
he hated her. He had never before told her so. Flea it 
caught her breath in a gasp, and turned her eyes to a rift lii 
in a rock where the scow lay. Only a dark line dis- r 
tinguished it in the shadows. At the thought that it was i 
to be forced upon her for a home, she cried again, and j 
Snatchet, from his haven of rest, lifted his pointed yellow 
nose and wailed dismally, striving with all his dog’s soul iti 
to assuage her unusual grief. f 

The distant sound of a hoot-owl startled Flea from her \p 
tears. It was a familiar sound to her and came as a call | 
from a friend. | 

Creeping into the low woodshed. Flea took up a bundle iP 
of fagots from the corner, and, closing the door on i 
Snatchet that he might not follow her, mounted the hill 
with the wood under her arm. Once at the top of the ; 
lane, she opened her lips and echoed the hoot. She passed ; 
through a thicket of sumac into a clearing where a num- i 
ber of sheep were huddled together in the cold night air. 
An answer came back almost instantly from the ragged ( 
rocks, and, squatting in a hollow. Flea sat patiently until : 
the branches broke below her, A woman with tangled ! 
hair came creeping cautiously forward. 

“ Who be there? ” she whispered. 

It’s Flea, Screech Owl. Be the bats a runnin’ in yer 
head?” ' 


OF THE MISSING 


49 


‘‘ Yep, child,” the woman answered mournfully. “ The 
fagots be given out, too, and I’m a huntin’ of ’em. The 
night’s cold.” 

“ I was lookin’ for ye this afternoon, Screechy,” said 
Flea, “ Set down.” 

The lean, half-starved woman dropped beside the girl. 
Flea put out her hand and smoothed down the rough hair 
on Scraggy’s black cat. The animal, usually so vicious, 
purred in delight, rubbing his nose against the girl’s hand. 

“ Air the little Flea wantin’ the owl to tell her some- 
thin’.? ” 

“ Yep,” replied Flea doubtfully. 

‘‘And ye brought yer old Screechy a little present.?” 

“ Yep.” 

“ What.? ” 

“ Some fagots to keep ye warm. Screechy.” 

“ Where be they .? ” 

“ Here by my side.” 

“Ye be a good Flea,” cackled Screechy. “ Be ye in 
trouble .? ” 

“ Yep. So be Flukey. Can ye tell me anything ’bout 
Flukey.? ” 

The woman frowned. “ Flukey, Flukey, yer brother,” 
she repeated. “ I ain’t a likin’ boys, ’cause they throw 
stones at me.” 

“ Flukey never throwed no stones at ye. Screechy, an’ 
he’s unhappy now. He’ll bring ye a lot more fagots some- 
time to heat yer bones by.” 

“ Aye, I’m a needin’ heat. My bones be stiff, and my 
blood’s nothin’ but water, and my eyes ain’t seein’ 
nothin’.” 

“ Don’t they see things in the dark,” asked the girl, 
superstitiously, “ ghosts and things .? ” 

“ Aye, Flea ; and the things I see now I’ll tell ye if they 
be good or bad — mind ye, good or bad ! ” 


50 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Good or bad,” repeated Flea. j- 

At length, after a silence, the girl broke forth. ‘‘Air p 
Flukey in yer eyes. Screechy? ” > 

“Yep, Flea, and so be you; but there ain’t much for ^ 
ye, savin’ that ye go a long journey lookin’ for a good i[ 
land.” 

^ Bending her head nearer. Flea coaxed, “ What good I 
land. Screechy dear? ” : 

“ Yer’s and Flukey’s, Flea.” 

“ Where air it ? ” i 

“ Down behind the college hill, many a stretch for yer |- 
short legs from the squatter’s settlement, and many a day 
when bread’s short and water’s plenty, many a night when < 
the cold’ll bite yer legs, and many a tear — ” 

“ Be we leavin’ Pappy Lon? ” demanded the girl. 

“ Yep.” 

“Forever and forever?” 

“ For Flukey, yep ; but for yerself — ” | 

Flea stared in speechless wonder and fright. “ I don’t j 
want to stay without Flukey ! ” she cried. | 

“ I ain’t a tellin’ ye what ye want to do ; only how the ^ 
shadders run. But that’s a weary day off. The good | 
land be yers and Flukey’s for the seekin’ of it.” | 

“ Air Flukey goin’ to be catched a thievin’ ? ” i 

“ Yep, some day.” j 

“With Pappy Lon?” 

“ Nope, with yerself. Flea.” 

“ I ain’t no thief,” replied Flea sulkily. “ I ain’t never 
took nothin’, not so much as a chicken! And Flukey 
wouldn’t nuther if Pappy Lon didn’t make him.” 

From behind Screech Owl’s shrouding gray hair two 
black eyes glittered. 

“ The good land, the good land I ” whispered the mad- 
woman. “ It be all cornin’ for yerself and Flukey.” 

“ Be I goin’ to — ” Flea sat back on her bare toes. 


OF THE MISSING 


51 


her face suddenly darkening with rage. “ I won’t go 
with him ! I won’t, Screechy, if he was in every old eye 
in yer head ! I won’t, so there ! ” 

The darkness hid from Screech Owl the glint in Flea’s 
eyes. 

“ Who be it Lon said you was goin’ with. Flea.? ” 

Scraggy must have forgotten her conversation with 
Lem but an hour or two before; for she evinced no knowl- 
edge of any man interested in Flea. 

“ A one-armed man. Pappy says I’m to be his woman. 
Be I, Screechy.? ” 

“Nope; but I see a hook a whirlin’ in the air into the 
good land, a whirlin’ and a whirlin’ after ye. I see it a 
stealin’ on ye in the night when ye think ye’re safe. I 
see the sharp p’int of it a stickin’ into yer soft flesh — ” 

“ Don’t, don’t ! ” pleaded Flea in a smothered voice. 
“ Ye said as how I were goin’ with Flukey to a good land 
down behind the college hill.” 

“ So ye be,” assented the Owl ; “ but after ye get to 
the good land the sharp p’int of the hook’ll come and rip 
at ye. I see it a haulin’ ye back away from them what 
ye loves — ” 

Flea grasped the woman’s arm between her fingers and 
pressed nearer Scraggy with a startled cry. The cat, 
hissing, lashed a bushy tail from side to side. His eyes 
flashed green, and a cry came from Flea’s lips. In an- 
other instant she was speeding away down the rocks. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


A t three o’clock the next morning a boat left the • 
lighthouse at the head of Cayuga Lake and was ; 
rowed toward the western shores. As before, two -v 
men and a boy were in it. The lad was still at the rud- j, 
der, while the men swiftly cut the water stroke by stroke, j 
For three miles down the lake no one spoke ; but when j 
the boat scraped the shore in front of his hut Lon broke j 
the silence. 

It weren’t a bad haul tonight, were it, Lem ? ” he 
said almost jovially. ‘‘And tomorry ye come up to the 
shanty for the dividin’. Ye know I wouldn’t cheat a 
hair o’ yer head, don’t ye, Lem.? ” 

“ Yep, ye bet I know it! And I’m that happy ’cause ' 
I’m to take yer gal a Saturday that I could give ye the 
hull haul tonight, Lon.” 

“Ye needn’t do that, Lem. I give ye Flea ’cause I | 
want ye to have her, and I know that you’ll make her j). 
stand round and mind ye, and if she don’t — ” 

“ Then I’ll make her 1 ” put in Lem darkly. “ She’ll h 
give back no more bites for my kisses when I get her! I [ 
had a woman a long time ago, and when she didn’t mind In 
me I beat her, and beat her and beat her hard! That’s 
the way to do with women folks ! ” 

“ Ye had Scraggy, didn’t ye, Lem.? ” asked Lon, heap- 
ing his arm with his clothing. 

Flukey stood silently by, his pale face ghastly in the 
thin, yellow moonlight. 

“Yep; but Scraggy wasn’t no good. I didn’t like 

52 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 58 


her. I do like Flea, and I’d stick to her, too. I’d marry 
her if ye’d say the word.” 

“ Nope, I ain’t a askin’ ye to marry her. Yer jest 
make her stand around, and break her spirit if ye can. 
Flea ain’t like Flukey; she’s hard to beat a thing out of.” 

“ I know how to handle her ! ” answered Lem. The si- 
lent laughter in his throat ended in a grunt. He slung a 
small basket over the hook and went off up the rocks to 
his scow. 

‘‘ Ye can go to bed. Flukey,” said Lon. “ Ye’ve done 
a good night’s work — and mind ye it ain’t wicked to take 
what ye want from them havin’ plenty.” 

Lon hesitated before proceeding. ‘‘ And, Flukey, if ye 
know what’s good for Flea, don’t be settin’ her up ag’in’ 
my wishes, ’cause if she don’t do what I tell her it’ll be 
the worse for her ! . . . Scoot to bed ! ” 

The boy stood for a moment, opened his lips to plead 
with the big, sullen squatter for his sister; but, changing 
his mind, limped off to the cabin. 

When the shanty was quiet a girl’s figure shrouded in 
black curls crawled across the hut floor to the loft ladder. 
Flea ascended quickly; but halted at the top to catch her 
breath. She could hear from the other side of the parti- 
tion the sound of Lon’s heavy snores, and from the corner 
came the lighter breathing of her brother. Through the 
small loft window the moonbeams shone, and by them 
Flea could see the boy’s dark head and strong young arm 
under the masses of thick hair. 

She began to crawl toward the cot, wriggling like a 
huge worm across the bare boards. Several times she 
paused, trying to suppress her frightened heartbeats. 
Then, lifting her hand, she placed it over Flukey’s mouth 
and whispered: 

“ Fluke, Fluke, wake up ! It’s Flea ! ” 


54 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Flukey made no movement to dislodge his tightly 
pressed lips from the trembling fingers. The gray eyes 
flashed open; but the lad lay perfectly still. 

‘‘ Fluke,” breathed Flea, “ I’m goin’ to the cave. Slip 
on yer pants, and don’t wake Granny Cronk nor Pappy 
Lon!” 

If it had not been that the boy pressed his fingers on 
the blanket. Flea would have wondered if her brother had 
heard. 

The lithe form had crept back to the ladder and had 
disappeared before Flukey slipped quietly from his bed 
and drew on the blue- jeans overalls. As he stole through 
the kitchen, he could hear the snorts of Granny Cronk 
coming from the back room. The outside door stood 
partly open, and without hesitation he passed through 
and closed it after him that the wind might not slam it. 
Then he limped along under the shore trees, up a little 
hill, and dropped out of sight into an open cavern, where 
Flea, a candle in her hand, sat in semidarkness. 

The cave had been the children’s playground ever since 
they could remember. Here they had come to weep over 
indignities heaped upon them in childhood; here they had 
come in joy and in sorrow, and now, in secret conclave 
in the early hours of the morning, they had come again. 

“ Ye’re here ! ” said Flea in feverish haste. I feared 
ye’d go to sleep again.” 

“ Nope; I allers come when ye want me, Flea.” 

“ Did ye steal tonight.? ” 

Yep.” 

What did ye get.? ” 

The boy shuddered, and a strange, hunted expression 
came into his eyes. “ Spoons, knives, clothes, and things,” 
said he ; “ and I’d ruther be tore to pieces by wild bulls 
than ever steal again ! ” 

His voice was toned with an unnatural ring. Wonder- 


OF THE MISSING 


55 


inglj, Flea drew closer to him, the candle dripping white, 
round drops hot on the brown hand. 

“ But Pappj Lon says as how ye must steal, don’t he? ” 
she asked presently. 

‘‘ Yep, and as how you must go with Lem.” 

“ I won’t, I won’t ! Pappy Lon can kill me first ! ” 

She said this in passionate anger ; but, upon holding the 
candle close to Flukey’s face, she exclaimed: 

“ Fluke, don’t look like that — it scares me ! ” 

He was piercing the dark ends of the cave, his eyes 
colored like steel. They were softened only by shots of 
brown, which ran like chain lightning through them. The 
girl’s gaze followed her brother’s timidly; for he looked 
ahead, as if he saw something that threatened her and 
him. In spite of her soft touch, the boy looked on and 
on in his unyielding fierceness at the fast approaching 
inevitable, which he had not been able to stem. That day 
a change had been ordered in their lives, and it had come 
upon him in the shape of a mental blow that hurt him far 
worse than if Pappy Lon had flogged him throughout the 
night. 

“ If Pappy Lon sends me next Saturday to Lem,” Flea 
ventured in an undertone, “ then ye can’t help me much, 
can ye. Fluke ? ” 

The muscles of the boy’s face relaxed, and he drew his 
knee up to his chest. When my leg ain’t lame I’m 
strong enough to lick Lem, if — if — ” 

‘‘ Nope ; I ain’t no notion for ye to lick him yet. Fluke. 
Do ye believe in the sayin’s of Screech Owl? ” 

“ Ye mean — ” 

“ Do ye believe what she says when the bats be a flyin* 
round in her head, and when she sees the good land for 
you and myself. Flukey ? ” 

“ Did she say somethin’ ’bout a good land for us. 
Flea? ” 


56 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Yep.” 

“ Where’s the good land.^ ” 

“ Down behind the college hill, many a stretch from 
here — and, Flukey, I ain’t a goin’ to Lem’s, and ye ain’t j 
likin’ to be a thief. Will ye come and find the good land | 
with me.^ ” 'f 

“ Girls can’t run away like boys can. They ain’t able jp 
to bear hurt.” j 

Flea dropped her head with a blush of shame. She jk 
knew well that Flukey could perform wonderful feats u 
which she had been unable to do. Grandma’m Cronk had I 

f 

told her that her dresses made the difference between her ja 
ability and Flukey’s. With this impediment removed, she ! 
could turn her face toward the shining land predicted by B 
Scraggy for Flukey and herself ; she could follow her i 
brother over hills and into valleys, until at last — | 

“ I could wear a pair of yer pants and be a boy, too, 1 
and you could chop off my hair,” she exclaimed. “ All ft 
I want ye to do is to grow to be a man quick, and to lick 
Lem Crabbe if he comes after me. Will ye.'^ Screechy 
says he’s goin’ to follow me.” 

“ I’ll lick him anywhere,” cried the boy, his tears rising ; 

“ and if ye has to go to him, and he as much as lays a 
finger on ye. I’ll kill him ! ” 

His face was so rigidly drawn during his last threat 
that he hissed the words out through his teeth. 

“ Then ye’d get yer neck stretched,” argued Flea, 

‘‘ and I ain’t a goin’ to him. We be goin’ away to the 
good land down behind the college hill.” 

‘‘ When ? ” demanded Flukey. 

“ Tonight,” replied Flea. “Ye go and get some duds 
for me, — a shirt and the other pair of yer jeans. Crib 
Granny’s shears to cut my hair off. Then we’ll start. 
See.? And we ain’t never cornin’ back. Pappy Lon hates 


OF THE MISSING 


57 


me, and he’s licked ye all he’s goin’ to. Git along and 
crib the duds ! ” 

She rose to her feet, nervously breaking away the little 
rivers of grease that had hardened upon her hand and 
wrist. 

“ Ye’ve got to get into the hut in the dark,” she said, 
“ and then ye stand at the mouth of the cave while I put 
on the things.” 

“ How be we goin’ to live when we go ? ” asked Flukey 
dully, making no move to obey her. 

“ We’ll live in the good land where there be lots of bread 
and ’lasses,” she soothed; “the two dips in the dish at 
one time — jest think of that, ole skate!” 

He tried to smile at her forced jocularity; but the 
hunted expression saddened his eyes again. To these 
children, brought up animal-like in the midst of misery 
and hate, their world revolved round their stomachs, too 
often empty. But this new trouble — the terror of Flea’s 
going with Lem — had made a man of Flukey, and bread 
and molasses sank into oblivion. He was ready to shield 
her from the thief with his life. 

“ Get along ! ” ordered Flea. 

Instead of obeying, the boy sat down on a rounded 
stone. “ I’d a runned away along ago, if it hadn’t been 
for you. Flea.” 

“ I know that you love me,” said the girl brokenly ; “ I 
know that, all right 1 ” 

“ I couldn’t have stood Pappy Lon nor Lem nor none 
of the rest,” groaned Flukey, “ and I was to tell ye to- 
night to let me go, and I would come back for ye ; but if ye 
be made to go with Lem — ” 

“ That makes ye take me with you,” gasped Flea 
eagerly. “ Huh ? ” 

“ Yep, that makes me take ye with me. Flea ; but if 


58 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


we go mebbe sometimes we have to go without no 
bread.” 

There was warning in his tones ; for he had heard stories 
of other lads who had left the settlement and had returned 
home lank, pale, and hungry. 

“ I’ve been out o’ bread here,” encouraged Flea. “ Gran- 
ny’s put me to bed many a time, and no supper. Get 
along, will ye.? ” 

‘‘Yep, I’m goin’; but I can’t leave Snatchet. We can 
take my dorg. Flea. Where’s he gone.^ ” 

“ We’ll take him,” promised Flea. “ He’s in the wood- 
house. Scoot and get the duds and him ! ” 

The boy toiled up the rocks to the top of the cave, and 
Flea heard his departing steps for a moment, then seated 
herself in tremulous fear. 

Flukey pushed open the cabin door, listened a moment, 
and stepped in. No sound save of loud breathing came 
from the back room where the old woman slept. At the 
top of the ladder he could hear Lon snoring loudly. 
Flukey crawled upon his knees to a small box against the 
waU. He pulled out a pair of brown overalls and a blue 
shirt, and with great caution crept back. Almost before 
Flea realized that he had gone, he was in the cave again 
with Snatchet in his arms, displaying his plunder. 

“ Put ’em on quick ! ” ordered Flukey. “ Here, hold 
still ! ” As he spoke, he gathered Flea’s black curls into 
his fingers and cut them off boylike to her head. “ If 
Pappy Lon catches us,” he went on, “ he’ll knock hell 
out of us both.” 

The girl, having surrendered her spirit of command, 
crawled into the trousers and donned the blue shirt. 
After extinguishing the candle, which Flukey slipped into 
his pocket, they clambered out of the cave, leaving the 
rocky floor strewn with locks of hair, and stole softly 
along the shore toward the college hill. 




.j 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


H orace SHELLINGTON, newly fledged attorney 
and counsellor-at-law, sat in his luxurious library, 
his feet cocked upon the desk in true bachelor 
fashion. He was apparently deep in thought, his hand- 
some head resting against the back of the chair, when 
his meditations were broken by a knock at the door. 
“Come in. Is it you, Sis.?” he said. 

“ Yes, Dear,” was the answer as the girl entered. 
“ Everett wants us to go in his party to the Dry den fair. 
Would you like to.? ” 

Horace glanced up quizzically and smiled as the blush 
mounted to her fair hair. “ The question, Ann dear, rests 
with you.” 

“ I never tire being with Everett,” Ann said slowly. 

“ That’s because you’re in love with him. Sis. When 
a girl is in love she always wants to be wdth the lucky 
chap.” 

“ And doesn’t he want to be with her.? ” demanded Ann 
eagerly. 

“ Of course. And, Ann, I shouldn’t ask for a better 
fellow than Everett is, only that I don’t want you to leave 
me right away. Without you. Dear, I think I should die 
of the blue devils ! ” 

“ Do you want me to stay at home until you, too, get 
ready to marry.? ” Ann asked laughingly. “ I’m afraid 
I should never have a chance to help Everett make a home 
if you did; for you simply w'on’t like any of the girls I 
know.” 

“ I want to get well started in my profession before I 

59 


60 


FROM THE VALLEY 


think of marrying. I am happy over the fact that I 
have been able to enter Vandecar’s law office. He’s the 
strongest man in the state in his line, and it means New 
York for me some day. Vandecar is even more powerful 
than Brimbecomb.” 

“ I’m glad for you, Horace, because it seems to me that 
you have an opportunity that few men have. Nothing 
can ever keep you back! And you are so very young, 
Dear 1 ” 

“ No, nothing can keep me back now, Ann. Sit down, 
do.” ' 

. “Not now. Dear; I’ll run away from you, and tell i 
Everett that you will go to Dryden with us — and I do 
hope that the weather will be fine 1 ” 

Ann tripped out, her heart light with contentment. ^ 
Her star of happiness had reached its zenith when Everett 
Brimbecomb had asked her to be his wife. Rich in her “ 
own right, of the bluest blood in the state, soon to marry 
the man who had been her ideal since their childhood days, ■ 
why should she not be happy 

After leaving Horace, Ann went to the side window and 
tapped upon it. Receiving no response, she lifted the > 
sash and called softly to her fiance. Hearing her voice, ! 
Everett Brimbecomb appeared at the opposite window. ‘ 
The girl’s heart thrilled with happiness as he smiled upon ^ 
her. ' 

“ Run over a minute, Everett,” she called. > 

“ All right, dear heart.” 

His voice was so vibrantly low and rich that the girl 
experienced a feeling of thanksgiving as she stood waiting 
for him at the door. When he came, the lovers went into 
the drawing-room, where a grate fire burned dim. 

“ Horace says he’ll go to Dryden, Everett,” Ann an- 
nounced, “ and I’m so glad I I thought he might say I 
that he was too busy.” ' 


, 1 


OF THE MISSING 


61 


Everett smiled, slipped his arm about the girl’s waist, 
and for a moment she leaned against him like a frail, sweet 
flower. 

Presently Ann noticed that a shadow had settled on 
her lover’s face. Womanlike, she questioned him. 

“ Is there anything the matter. Dear.? ” she asked, draw- 
ing him to the divan. 

“ Nothing serious. I’ve been talking with Father.” 

“ Yes.? ” 

She waited for him to continue; but he sat silent, 
wrapped in thought for a long minute. At last, however, 
he spoke gloomily: 

“ Ann, I wish I knew who my own people were.” 

“Aren’t you satisfied with those you have, Everett.?” 
There was sweet reproof in the girl’s tones. 

“ More than satisfied,” he said ; “ but somehow I feel 
— no I won’t say it, Ann. It would seem caddish to you.” 

“ Nothing you could say to me would seem that,” she 
answered. 

Everett rose and walked up and down the room. 
“ Well, it seems to me that, although the blood of the 
Brimbecomb’s is blue, mine is bluer still ; that, while 
they have many famous ancestors, I have still more illus- 
trious ones. I feel sometimes a longing to run wild 
and do unheard-of things, and to make men know my 
strength, to — well, to virtually turn the world upside 
down.” 

A frightened look leaped into the girl’s eyes, He was 
so vehement, so passionate, so powerful, that at times she 
felt how inferior in temperment she was to him. Her 
heart swelled with gratitude when she realized that he be- 
longed to her and to her alone. How good God had 
been! And every day in the solitude of her chamber 
she had thanked the Giver of every gift for this perfect 
man — since he was perfect to her. In a few moments 


62 


FROM THE VALLEY 


she rose and walked beside him, longing to enter into 
the hidden ambitions of his heart, to read his innermost 
thoughts. Everett appreciated her feeling. Again he 
passed his arm around her, and for a time they paced to 
and fro, each thankful for the love that had become the 
chief thing in life. 

“ I have an idea, Ann,” began Everett presently, “ that 
my mother will know me by the scar on me here.” He 
raised his fingers to his shoulder and drew them slowlj 
downward as he continued. “ And I know that she is some 
wild, beautiful thing different from any other woman 
living. And I’ve pictured my father in my mind’s eyes a 
million times, since I have found out I am not really 
Everett Brimbecomb.” 

“ But Mr. and Mrs. Brimbecomb have done everything 
for you — ” 

‘‘ So they have,” broke in Everett ; but a chap wants ; 
to know his own flesh and blood, and, since Mother told 
me that I was not her own son, I’ve looked into the face I 
of every woman I’ve seen and wondered if my own mother 
was like her. I don’t want to seem ungrateful; but if 
they would only tell me more I could rest easier.” A ' 
painful pucker settled between his brows. i 

“ Sit down here, Everett,” Ann urged, and tell me if 1 
you have ever tried to find them.” I 

‘‘I asked my fath — Mr. Brimbecomb today.” His 
faltering words and the change of appellation shocked i 
Ann; but she did not chide him, for he was speaking again, i 
“ I told him that, now I was through college and had been ’ 
admitted to the bar, I insisted upon knowing who my o^vn 
people were. But he said that I must ask his wife; that t 
she knew, and would tell me, if she desired me to know. I ^ 
promised him long ago that I would register in his law 
office at the same time that Horace w^ent to Vandecar’s. I 
Confound it, Ann ! — I beg your pardon, but I feel as if i 


OF THE MISSING 


63 


I had been created for something more than to drone 
over petty cases in a law office.” 

“ But, Everett, it has been understood ever since you 
went to Cornell that you should enter Mr. Brimbecomb’s 
office. You would not fail him now that he is so dependent 
upon you.^ ” 

“ Of course not ; I intend to work with him. But I tell 
you this, Ann, that I am determined to find my own people 
at whatever cost ! ” 

“Did you ask Mrs. Brimbecomb about them.^ ” 

“ Yes ; but she cried so that I stopped — and so it goes ! 
Well, Dear, I don’t want to worry you. It only makes 
a little more work for me, that’s all. But, when I do 
find them, I shall be the proudest man in all the world.” 

Ann rose to her feet hastily. “Here comes Horace! 
Let’s talk over the fair — and now. Dear, I must kiss 
away those naughty lines between your eyes this moment. 
I don’t want my boy to feel sad.” 

She kissed him tenderly, and turned to meet her brother. 

“ I was tired of staying in there alone,” said Horace. 
“ Hello, Everett ! It was nice of you, old chap, to ask 
me along to Dryden. That’s my one failing in the fall — 
I always go. Let me see — you didn’t go last year, did 
you, Everett ” 

“ No ; but I knew that Ann wanted to go this year, and 
I thought a party would be pleasant. I asked Katherine 
Vandecar; but her aunt is such an invalid that Katherine 
can scarcely ever leave her.” 

“ Mrs. Vandecar is ill,” said Ann. “ I called there 
yesterday, and she is the frailest looking woman I ever 
saw.” 

“ She’s never got over the loss of her children,” rejoined 
Everett. “ It’s hard on Vandecar, too, to have her ill. 
He looks ten years older than he is.” 

“ Yes ; but their little Mildred is such a comfort to them 


64 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


both!” interjected Ann. “They watch the child like| 
hawks. I suppose it’s only natural after their awful ex-i 
perience. Isn’t it strange that two children could disap-i 
pear from the face of the earth and not a word be heard 
from them in all these years ? ” 

“ They’re probably dead,” replied Horace gently, and 
silence fell upon them. 


CHAPTER NINE 


F lea and Flukey Cronk, followed by the yellow dog, 
made their way farther and farther from Ithaca. 
They had left the university in the distance, when 
a dim streak of light warned them that day was ap- 
proaching. It was here that Flea lagged behind her 
brother. 

“ Ye’re tired. Flea,” said Flukey. 

“ Yep.” 

“ Will ye crawl into a haystack if we come to one.^* ” 

« Yep.” 

They spoke no more until, farther on, a farmhouse, 
with dark barns in the rear, loomed up before them. 

“ Ye wait here. Flea,” said Flukey, “ till I see where we 
can sleep.” 

After an absence of a few minutes he returned and in 
silence conducted the girl by a roundabout way to a newly 
piled stack of hay. 

“ I hurried a place for us both,” he whispered. “Ye 
crawl in first. Flea, and I’ll bring in Snatchet. Lift yer 
leg up high and ye’ll find the hole.” 

A minute later they were tucked away from the cold 
morning, their small faces overshadowed by the new-mown 
hay, and here, through the morning hours, they slept 
soundly. Then again they set forth, and it was late in 
the afternoon when they drew up before the high fence 
encircling the fair-grounds at Dryden. The fall fair was 
in full blast. Crowds were passing in and out of the 
several gates. With longing heart, first Flea, then 
Flukey, placed an eye to a knothole, to watch the pro- 

65 


66 


FROM THE VALLEY 


ceedings inside. Rows of sleek cattle waved their blue 
and red ribbons jauntily in the breeze; fat pigs, with the 
owners’ names pasted on the cards in front, grunted in 
small pens. For a time the twins stood side by side, wish- | 
ing with all their might that they were possessed of the j 
necessary entrance-fee. ^ 

‘‘If I could get a job,” said Flukey, “we could get ! 
in.” 

“ I could work, too,” said Flea, her hands dug deep in ( 
her trousers pockets. 

Just then a man hailed them. “ Want to get in. Kids.? ” 
he asked. 

“Yep!” bawled Flea and Flukey in unison, their 
hunger forgotten in this new delight. 

“ Then help me carry in those boards, and then you 
can stay in.” 

Flukey looked apprehensively at Flea. 

“Ye ain’t a boy — ” | 

“ Shet up ! ” snapped Flea. “ My pants’re as long | 
as your’n, and I be a boy till we get to the good land. 
Heave a board on my shoulder. Fluke.” ; 

They slid through the opening in the fence made to j 
pass in the lumber, and for ten minutes aided their new ' i 
friend by carrying plank after plank into the fair-grounds. ! 
When the work was done they stood awe-stricken, looking | 
at the gorgeous surroundings. Flags waved aloft on ! 
each building; yards of bunting roped in exhibits of all 
kinds. Everywhere persons were walking to and fro. 
But still the squatter children stood motionless and stared 
with wide-open eyes at such an array of good things as 
had never before gladdened their sight. Then, after the 
strangeness had somewhat worn off, they wandered on, be- 
wildered. Snatcheb was hugged tight in Flukey’s arms; 
for other dogs laid back their ears and growled at the , 
yellow cur. 


OF THE MISSING 


67 


Suddenly they came upon the athletic field. Here, 
reared high in the air, was a slender greased pole, on the 
top of which fluttered a five-dollar bill. Several young- 
sters, dressed in bathing suits, awaited the hour when they 
should be allowed to try and win the money. One after 
another they took their turn, and when an extra spurt 
up the pole was made by some lucky boy the crowd 
evinced its delight by loud cheers. Time and again the 
breeze fluttered the coveted money, and yet no boy had 
won the prize. 

“ I’d like to try it,” said Flukey. 

‘‘ If we couldn’t get it with bathing suits, you couldn’t 
climb that pole with them long pants,” retorted one of 
the contestants who stood near. “ Look ! that kid’s goin’ 
to get it, after all ! ” There was disappointment in the 
tones; but the words had no sooner died away than the 
climber slipped to the ground. 

Flea pinched Flukey’s arm. Be yer knee so twisted 
that ye can’t try. Flukey ? ” 

‘‘ Nope, my rheumatiz ain’t hurtin’ me now.” 

‘‘ Then shinny up it, Fluke — ye can climb it ! Get 
along there ! ” 

She took the dog from his arms, and the boy went for- 
word when the call came for another aspirant. 

‘‘ I’m goin’ to get that there bill ! ” said Flukey, shutting 
his teeth firmly. 

He advanced and spoke in an undertone to a man, who, 
with a grin, shouted out the name, “ Mr. F. Cronk.” 

The dignity of the prefix made Flukey spit upon his 
hands before he started to climb the pole. Flea came 
closer and stood almost breathless. Her parted lips 
showed small, even, white teeth, her eyes glistened, and 
flashes of red blood crimsoned hdr face. One suspender 
slipping from her shoulder, the vicious dog in her arms, 
the beautiful upturned face, was as interesting a spec- 


68 


FROM THE VALLEY 


tacle as the onlookers had ever seen. It was with breathless 
interest that she watched her brother laboriously ascend 
the pole. 

Flukey was indeed making a masterful climb. But at 
last he halted ; and then, a moment later, he climbed 
desperately. The girl on the ground saw him falter, and 
knew that he was becoming faint-hearted. To encourage 
him, she lifted a voice broken by emotion and shouted: 

‘‘ Go it. Fluke, go it ! . . . Aw ! damn it, he slid ! 

. . . Go it, ole feller! Git there, git there! Ye’re 

almost there. Fluke — git it ! It’s a dinner — it’s a 
bone for Snatchet, and we’ll eat! . . . Damn it! he 

slid again ! . . . Aw ! hell ! ” 

Flukey gained the space he had lost in his last slide. 
Halfway up, he began again, the men cheering and the 
women waving handkerchiefs. But the boy had heard 
only the words from the little figure under the pole. The 
five dollars did mean a good dinner, and a bone for lean 
Snatchet. Up, up, and still up, until his fingers grasped 
the pole very near the top. 

There he rested for breath. For a few seconds his 
head drooped on his shoulders, and absolute quiet reigned 
below. His slender legs encircled the pole, and finally, 
with a painful effort, he lifted out the pin stuck in the 
bill, grasped the money in his fingers, and instantly slid 
to the ground. Laughs and cheers roared into the air. 
Flea had backed away from the pole, still holding the small 
dog; but, before she could get to Flukey, other boys were 
surrounding him, asking how he had done it. 

A sudden shouting came from hundreds of throats. 
One voice raised above the clamor: 

“ Anyone catching the greased pig. Squeaky, can have 
him. He’s a fine roaster! After him. Boys!” 

Over a knoll, his tiny nose swaying in the air, and four 


OF THE MISSING 


69 


short legs kicking the dust into clouds, skurried a small 
pig, coated from head to tail with lard. Deftly he slipped 
for his life through many youthful hands stretched out 
to grasp him, and time and again he wriggled from under 
a small boy crouched to stop his progress. He passed 
the danger-mark, and in the new stretch of ground, where 
the spectators were standing, discerned a chance to escape. 

Flea saw him coming and could detect the terror in the 
flying little beast. Her heart leaped up in answer to the 
call from something in distress — something she loved, 
loved because it lived and suffered through terrible fear. 
She dropped Snatchet and caught the greased pig in her 
arms. She hugged him up to her breast and, turning 
flashing eyes upon the people staring at her, said: 

Poor little baby piggy ! He’s scared almost to 
death.” 

“You’ve caught the greased pig!” somebody shouted. 
“ You can have him — he’s yours I ” 

“Ye mean mine to keep.?^ ” Flea demanded of the man 
who had cheered on the boys. 

“ Yes, to keep,” was the reply, “ and this five-dollar 
gold-piece because you caught him.” 

“ I didn’t try to catch him,” she said simply. “ He j est 
corned to me ’cause he were so afeard. His little heart’s 
a heatin’ like as if he’s goin’ to die. I’ll keep him, and 
I thank ye for the money. . . . Golly! but ain’t me 
and Flukey two rich kids ? Where’s Fluke ? ” 

Just then somebody stepped up behind the girl and 
touched her on the arm. Flea turned her head and found 
herself gazing into the kindly eyes and earnest face of 
her prince. 

Instantly she lost all thought of her brother and 
Snatchet. The voice she had dreamed of was speaking. 

“ Little boy,” it said, “ I’ve purchased every year the 
greased pig of the youngster who caught him. May I 


70 


FROM THE VALLEY 


buy him of you? I’ll give you another gold-piece for 
him.” 

Words stuck in Flea’s throat, and she only clung closer 
to the suckling. At last she murmured, “ What do ye 
want with him? ” 

The man threw back his head and laughed. “ Why, to 
eat him, of course. We always have roast pig for dinner 
the day after the fair.” 

Flea dug her toe into the dust and flung up a cloud 
of it, as her face drew into a sulky frown. “Well,” she 
drawled, “ ye don’t hog down this ’un ! He’s mine ! ” 

“ But the money. Boy 1 Don’t you want the money? ” 

Her heart was beating so fast that she dared not lift 
her eyes again to his. Then a lady spoke in a soft voice, 
and Flea glanced at her. 

“ This is Mr. Horace Shellington,” she said, “ and if 
he did not have the pig he would be disappointed. You’ll 
let him buy it, won’t you? ” 

Flea looked into the questioning face of her prince, 
the face of her dreams, looked again into his smiling eyes, 
and stood hesitant. Her thoughts flew fast. She remem- 
bered the terrified pig, how she had pitied him, and how 
much he wanted to live, to frisk in the sunshine. She 
thought of the cruel knife that would reach the tiny 
heart tapping against her own, and threw back her head 
in defiance. 

“Ye may have e’t all the greased pigs in this here coun- 
try,” she said to Shellington ; “ but ye don’t eat this ’un ! 
Ye see, this ’un’s mine, and he’s goin’ to live, eat, and 
be happy, that’s all ! ” Although she had spoken em- 
phatically, her eyes dropped again before the keen gaze 
bent upon her. To relieve her embarrassment, she turned 
and shouted, “ Flukey, Flukey, come along ! Where’s 
Snatchet? ” 

So great had been Flea’s excitement at the catching of 


OF THE MISSING 


71 


the pig that she had given no heed to the dog. Flukey 
had handed the little fellow to her, and she had let him go. 

Suddenly an appalling spectacle rose before her. On 
an elevated spot, a few feet from the greased pole, Snatchet 
stood poised in view of hundreds of curious eyes. His 
short stubby tail had straightened out like a stick. His 
nose was lowered almost to the ground. Each yellow hair 
on his scarred back had risen separate and apart from 
one another, while his beady eyes glistened greedily. Di- 
rectly in front of him, staring back with feathers ruffled 
and drooping wings, was a little brown hen, escaped from 
her coop. She was eying Snatchet impudently, daring 
him to approach her by perking her wee head saucily first 
on one side and then on the other. Snatchet, pressed on 
by hunger beating at his lean sides, slid rigidly a pace 
nearer. A cry went up from a childish voice. 

‘‘ He’ll kill my Queen Bess ! Father — Oh ! Father ! ” 

Flukey’s voice, calling to his dog, rose high above the 
clamor. Suddenly the little hen turned tail and flew 
across over the soft earth, uttering frightenM cackles; but 
her flight was slow compared to Snatchet’s. He came 
scurrying behind her, snapping a tail feather loose with 
each onward bound, utterly oblivious of the two strong 
voices calling his name. 

The little hen wove a precarious path through coops 
of chattering chickens, and Snatchet, bent upon his prey, 
added to the din. He had no way of knowing the twists 
and turns to be taken by his small brown victim, and it 
was only by making sharp comers that Queen Bess kept 
clear of the snapping teeth. Men were running to and 
fro for something to beat off the yellow invader. The 
girl’s voice had settled to a cry, and, just as Flukey, pant- 
ing and tired, reached the dog, Snatchet snapped up the 
hen, shook her fiercely, and settled down to his meal. In 
an instant Flukey had dragged the beating body from 


FROM THE VALLEY 


7a 

his teeth, kicked him soundly with his bare foot, and held 
out the dead hen to a man whose face was darkened by 
anger. The young mistress of the feathered queen was 
clinging, sobbing, to his hand. 

“ Is that your dog.^ ” Flea heard the man ask, pointing 
to Snatchet under the squatter boy’s arm. 

Yep.” 

Do you understand that he killed my little girl’s prize 
' hen ? ” 

“The dog ought to die, too!” cried a voice from the 
people. 

Her brother’s sorrowful attitude made Flea press 
Flukey’s arm soothingly. 

“ So he ought to die 1 ” said another. 

“ He were hungry,” explained Flukey, turning on 
Snatchet’s accuser. “ Mister, if ye’ll let my dorg live — ” 

Before he could finish the child had interrupted him. 
“ That dog ought to die for killing my Bess! ” 

Flea pushed past Flukey and stood before the little girl. 
“ Kid, I don’t blame ye for cryin’ for yer hen,” she be- 
gan ; “ but my brother ain’t got no dog but Snatchet, 
an’ if ye’ll let him live I’ll give ye this bit of gold I got 
for catchin’ the pig.” 

A murmur followed her words, and the tears dried in 
the blue eyes looking up at her. 

“ Here little ’un, chuck it in yer pocket,” said Flea, 
straightening her shoulders, “ and it’ll buy another hen.” 

So the jury wLich had sat for a moment upon the pre- 
cious life of Snatchet brought in a verdict of “ not 
guilty,” and the squatter children turned to find some- 
thing to eat for the quartet of empty stomachs. Out of 
sight of Dryden, they sat down beside the road, and Flea 
looked the pig over. 

“ Ye has to tie a piece of cord to his leg. Kid,” cau- 


OF THE MISSING 


73 


tioned Flukey ; “ ’cause he’ll get away if ye don’t. Ain’t 
he fine? ” 

“ The finest pig in this here world,” responded Flea. 

Ye ain’t got no rag what’ll wipe off some of this grease, 
have ye, Fluke? ” 

“ Nope; but ye can scrape it off with a stick or a rock. 
Here, ye hold him tight while I dig at him.” 

For about twenty minutes they busied themselves with 
cleaning the suckling, laughing at his wriggles and 
squeaks. 

“ What’ll we call him? ” asked Flea. 

Squeaky,” said Flukey, “ that’s what the man called 
out.” 

‘‘Aw, that ain’t nice enough for me! I’ll call him 
Prince, and ye call him Squeaky — Prince Squeaky,” she 
ended, knotting the cord Flukey had given her about the 
short hind leg of the animal. 

“ And we be rich,” she declared later, “ ’most five dol- 
lars, a pig, and Snatchet, and yer leg’s well. It don’t hurt 
a bit, do it ? ” 

“Nope, not now; but when I were at the top of that 
pole I got a damn good twist. It’s better now.” 

“ Then let’s mog along,” said Flea, “ ’cause we can 
eat all we want, now we got money.” 


CHAPTER TEN 


F or two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of 
the land. The country afforded them haystacks, 
and the brooks, clear water. The children were 
never happier than when Squeaky’s nose was hidden in a 
tin can of buttermilk, and the precious five dollars bought 
countless numbers of currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny 
bones for Snatchet. Now Flukey lifted his head proudly 
and walked with the air of a boy on the road to fortune, 
and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close 
in her arms. Through the long stretch of houseless 
roads Snatchet was allowed to rove at will, and Flukey 
relieved his sister of her burden. By the third day out 
toward the promised land the two little animals had be- 
come firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and 
on, as straight as the crow flies, through the valleys and 
over the hills, wading the creeks and ferrying the rivers, 
until they awoke one morning without money or break- 
fast. The warm hay at night, much sunshine, and the 
absence of rain had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey’s 
knee to normal size ; but that day, as they trudged along. 
Flea noticed that he limped more than at any time during 
their journey from Tompkins County. Even now, with 
hunger staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to 
return to Ithaca, no thought of renewing their life in the 
squatter’s settlement; for, unknown to themselves, they 
were being swept on by a common destiny. 

“ Ye’re gettin’ lame again,” said Flea after awhile, the 
mother-feeling in her making her watch Flukey with con- 

74 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 75 


cern. Last night a-laying’ in the field didn’t do ye any 
good. Let me lug Prince Squeaky.” 

Without remonstrance, the boy surrendered the wrig- 
gling burden, and they started out once more. 

“ I wish we could find a nice, warm haystack,” Flea 
commented; “it’d warm up yer bones. Will we get to 
one. Fluke, after awhile.^ ” 

“ Nope, ’cause we’re cornin’ to a big city.” 

As he spoke, he motioned to where Tarrytown lay on 
the banks of the Hudson River, several miles distant. 
Then they were silent a time; for each young life was busy 
with the tragedy of living. Just what they would do for 
a place to sleep Flea could not tell, since under the com- 
pact made in the rock-cavern they would steal no more. 

In the gathering twilight the two came upon the cem- 
etery of Sleepy Hollow, and here, tired, hungry, and de- 
spondent, they sat down to rest. 

“ It’s gettin’ night,” said Flukey drearily. “ I wonder 
where we’ll sleep ? ” 

“ Can’t we squirm in this dead man’s yard ’thout no- 
body seein’ us ? ” asked Flea, casting her eyes over the 
graves. “ Ye can’t walk no more tonight. I ain’t hun- 
gry, anyhow.” 

“Ye lie. Flea!” moaned Flukey. “Yer belly’s as 
empty as Squeaky’s or Snatchet’s. I’ve got to get ye 
somethin’ to eat.” 

Nevertheless, without resistance, he allowed her to help 
him through the large gate, and they struck off into the 
older part of the cemetery. All through the night they 
lay dozing in the presence of the dead. Squeaky tied by 
the leg to a tree, and Snatchet snuggled warmly between 
the two children. The dawning of day brought Flukey 
new anguish; for both knees were swollen, and he groaned 
as he turned over. 

Flea was iip instantly. “ Be ye sick.? ” 


T6 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Only the twist in my legs. I wish it wasn’t so cold. 
If the sun would only get warm ! ” 

“ We’ll get to the good land today, Fluke,” soothed 
Flea, “ and ye can eat all ye want, and sleep with a pile 
of covers on — as big — as big as that there vault 
yonder.” 

“ But we ain’t in the good land yet. Flea,” groaned 
Flukey, and we’re all hungry. I wish I could ’am a 
nickel. If ye didn’t love the pig so much. Flea, we could 
sell him. He’s a growin’ thinner and thinner every min- 
ute, and Snatchet be that starvin’ he could eat another 
mut bigger’n himself.” 

The girl made no answer to this, but tucked Squeaky’s 
pink nose under the blue-shirted arm and sat mute. 

Flukey, encouraged, went on. ‘‘ Nobody ’d buy Snatchet 
— he’s only a poor, damn, shiverin’ cuss.” 

“ If w^e selled Prince Squeaky, some’un’d eat him,” 
mourned Flea. ‘‘ He ain’t goin’ to be e’t, I says ! ” 

So forceful were her tones that Flukey offered no more 
suggestions; but stared miserably at the sun as it rose 
up from the east, dispersing the cold, gray morning fog. 
Presently Flea stood up and said decisively: 

“ We’ve got to eat. Ye stay here while I hunt for 
somethin’.” 

She darted away before Flukey could remonstrate. 
'For a long time the boy lay on the damp ground, his face 
drawn awry with pain, watching the wagons going back 
and forth on the road below. The pangs of hunger and 
the night of rheumatism had told upon his young strength. 
His mind went back to the hut on Cayuga Lake, and he 
thought of how when their absence had been discovered 
Granny Cronk had cried a little, and how Pappy Lon 
had cursed and grown more silent than ever. The tender 
heart of the sick boy yearned toward the old squatter 
woman, who had been the only mother he and Flea had 


OF THE MISSING 


77 


ever known. In his loneliness he stroked Squeaky on the 
snout and muttered tender words to the lean dog lying 
under his lame leg. After a short time he saw Flea, with 
a small bundle in her hand, picking her way among the 
graves. Flukey lay perfectly quiet until his sister offered 
him a bun. 

“ I could only buy four, ’cause I only had a nickel.” 

‘‘ Give Squeaky and Snatchet one, will ye, Flea.? ” ven- 
tured Flukey. 

“ Yep. I said, when I buyed ’em, there’d be one a- 
piece.” 

“ Somethin’ has made ye pale. Flea,” said Flukey after 
each of the four had devoured breakfast. “Ye didn’t — ” 

“ I see Lem Crabbe’s scow down by the river.” 

Flukey uttered an exclamation and sat up with a groan. 
“ He’s cornin’ after ye. Kid,” he breathed desperately. 

“ Nope, he ain’t,” assured Flea ; “ he’s takin’ lumber 
down to New York. And he didn’t see me. And we’ll 
stay in this here graveyard till he’s gone. He’s waitin’ 
for the steam tug to come. I guess he poled from Albany 
down when he couldn’t use his mules.” 

“Were Pappy Lon with him.?” asked Flukey, drawing 
up his knees. 

“ I dunno ; I didn’t wait to see. I had to ’am this 
nickel.” 

“Ye didn’t steal it. Flea.? ” 

“Nope; I had it give to me for holdin’ a horse. Ye 
believe me. Fluke.? ” 

“ Yep, I believe ye. And ye say as how we can’t go 
on now to the good land.? We has to stay here.?” 

“ For awhile,” replied Flea. “ When Lem Crabbe goes 
to New York, then we go, too.” 

While hundreds of birds made ready for a long night 
in the elm trees, the twins turned silent. Flukey lay with 


78 


FROM THE VALLEY 


his eyes closed in pain. The girl broke the quietude now 
and then by muttering softly the names on the gravestones 
over which her eyes roved: 

‘‘ EVERETT BRIMBECOMB 
ONE YEAR OLD 

BELOVED SON OF AGNES AND HAROLD BRIMBECOMB. 

RESTING IN JESUS ” 

Flea read this over several times, and turned to Flukey. 

“Who’s Jesus, Fluke?” she asked. 

The boy raised his head and opened his eyes languidly. 
“ What? What’d ye say. Flea? ” 

“Who’s Jesus?” she asked again, pointing to the in- 
scription on the stone. 

“ I dunno. I guess he’s some old feller layin’ down in 
there with that kid.” 

Thus the day had passed and the night fell. Flukey 
dropped into a deep sleep, and Flea, huddling to the cold 
earth, settled closer to her brother in the sheltering dark- 
ness. Suddenly the girl aroused as if from a bad dream. 
She sat up, feeling for the pig and Snatchet, and placed 
her hand on Flukey’s quiet body and lay down. Once 
more came the sound. It was the faint, distant hoot of 
an owl, stealing out through the tall trees. Nearer and 
nearer it came, until Flea sat bolt upright. Instantly 
into her mind shot the picture of a shriveled woman from 
the squatter country. A cold perspiration broke over her. 

She turned her head slowly and looked off into the 
dark end of the cemetery, over which hung a mist. 
Through this veil the pale moon watched the earth with 
steady gaze. From among the monuments and time- 
scarred headstones, looming darkly in the forbidding si- 
lence, an apparition arose, and to Flea’s vivid imagina- 
tion it seemed as if voiceless gray ghosts were peopling 


OF THE MISSING 


79 


God’s Acre on all sides. She recoiled in horror as the 
strange, wild cry drew nearer. 

A hysterical sensation burning in her throat tight- 
ened it so she could not speak to Flukey, nor could she 
drag her eyes from the thing moving toward her. 
Snatchet growled; but Flea pressed his jaws together with 
a snap, and the sound died in his throat. Squeaky moved 
slightly among the dead leaves, then became quiet again. 
The phantom-like figure passed almost near enough to 
touch the rigid girl. Its lips opened, and a hoarse, owl- 
like cry aroused the sleepy birds above. 

“ It’s Screechy ! ” murmured Flea, dropping back in 
fear. She’s come seekin’ Flukey and me ! The bats be 
flyin’ in her head ! ” 

Screech Owl, ignorant of the children’s proximity, went 
straight on, gliding over the graves until she stopped 
before the stone mansion at the edge of the graveyard. 
A light shone from the room, and the woman stole directly 
under it. A tall, handsome young man, his gaze centered 
thoughtfully upon the dark aspect, stood in the window. 
Flea saw Screechy hold out her arms toward him with 
an appealing gesture. He lifted his hand suddenly and 
drew down the shade, and his broad shoulders were sil- 
houetted against it in sharp, black lines. After that the 
breathless girl saw the woman turn and stumble past her 
without a sound. 

“ The bats left her head the minute that there winder 
got dark ! ” gasped the watcher. Tremblingly she drew 
closer to Flukey, until sleep overpowered her. 

The next day passed slowly, the cold rain lasting until 
almost nightfall, and yet the children dared not venture 
into the town. Flea fumed and fretted ; for the earning 
of the nickel had whetted her ambition to earn more. 
Now she dared not go near the river where work could 


80 


FROM THE VALLEY 


be found; but she knew that as soon as the tug appeared 
Lem Crabbe would go to New York. Probably by this 
time the scow was far on its way down the river. This 
was the decision at which the squatter twins arrived after 
weary hours of waiting. So, when the twilight again 
fell over the dead, they rose stiffly from their hiding place 
and limped to the road. 

“ We’ll go back to the graveyard tonight, if this ain’t 
the good land,” murmured Flea. “ We’ll be safe there 
from Lem, Fluke.” 

“ Wish we was rich like we was that fair-day. Flea,” 
replied the boy, scarcely able to walk. 

“ I wish so, too. If we had that yeller gold-piece we 
coughed up for that damn brown hen, we’d eat. But I’d 
ruther have Snatchet, Fluke.” 

“ I’d ruther have him, too ; but we need money — ” 

“ And when we get it,” interrupted Flea, “ Snatchet’ll 
have a hunk of meat, and Prince Squeaky a bucket of 
buttermilk, and ye’ll have liniment for yer legs. Fluke.” 

“ Ye’ll eat yerself first, Flea,” said Flukey. I saw 
ye when ye give the pig a bit of yer biscuit yesterday 
mornin’.” 

“We’ll all eat in the good land,” replied Flea hope- 
fully. 

By this time they had come to the gateway and turned 
into the street. Harold Brimbecomb’s beautiful home was 
brilliantly lighted. It appeared the same to Flea as on 
the night before, when she had seen Scraggy make her 
melancholy play before it. 

Flea had refrained from speaking of her midnight fright 
to Flukey; for he would but tell her that, like all girls, 
she was afraid, and a slur from her brother was more 
than she could bear. 

Flea and Flukey had never been taught to pray, 
“ Lead us not into temptation.” Now, with aching hearts 


OF THE MISSING 


81 


and empty stomachs, they turned in silence to the richly 
lighted houses. Flukey dragged himself resolutely past 
Brimbecomb’s as if he would avoid the desire that sud- 
denly pressed upon him to ply the trade in which he had 
been darkly instructed. But he halted abruptly before 
the next house, the curtains of which were pulled up half- 
way. The long windows reached to the porch floor. 
Through the clear glass the children saw a table dressed 
in all the gorgeousness of silver and crystal. At the 
spectacle a clamor for food set up in both aching stomachs, 
and the two passed as if by one accord to the porch. As 
they peered into the window with longing eyes. Squeaky 
was held tightly under Flea’s arm; but Snatchet, resting 
wearily on Flukey’s, suddenly sat up. He, too, had 
scented something to eat, and thrust in and out a lean 
red tongue over pointed, tusky teeth. 

“ It’s time for me to steal, Flea,” whispered Flukey, 
turning feverish eyes toward his sister. 

‘‘ If you do it. Flukey, I’ll do it with ye.” 

With no more ado. Flukey’s practiced fingers silently 
slid up the sash. Two youthful bodies stepped through 
the opening. In absolute quiet, they stood raggedly for- 
lorn, savagely hungry, before the tempting table. There 
was plenty to eat; so without a word the squatter girl 
placed Squeaky before a glass dish of salad. His small 
pink nose buried its tip from sight, and the food disap- 
peared into the suckling’s empty stomach. Snatchet, 
squatting on his haunches, snapped up a stuffed bird. 
Flea began to eat ; but Flukey, now too ill, leaned against 
the red-papered wall. 

Just at this critical moment the door opened, and Flea, 
greatly frightened, started back to the window. She 
blinked, brushed a dark curl from her eyes, and saw her 
Prince advancing toward her. He saw her, too ; but did 
not connect her with the bare-footed girl on Cayuga Lake, 


82 


FROM THE VALLEY 


but only with the boy who had kept from him the greased 
pig at the Dry den fair. He glanced at Squeaky calmly 
eating the salad and smiled. 

Bless my soul, Ann ! ” he said, turning to a lady who 
had followed him in, “ we have company to dinner, or my 
name isn’t Horace Shellington! Why didn’t you young 
gentlemen wait, and we should all have been seated to- 
gether ” 

There was a whirling in Flukey’s head, such as he had 
never felt before; but Flea’s ashen face brought back his 
scattered senses. He tried to lift his arm to throw it 
about her; but dropped it with a groan. Realizing the 
agony that had swept over her dear one. Flea gathered 
in a deep breath and took his fevered hand in hers. 

‘‘ It weren’t him,” she cried, lifting her eyes to her 
questioner and sullenly moving her head toward the shiver- 
ing boy at her side. “ I e’t yer victuals — he didn’t. If 
one of us goes to j ail, I do — see ? ” 

‘‘ Let me think,” ruminated Horace, eying her gravely. 
“ Six months is about the shortest sentence given to a 
fellow for breaking into a house. And what about the 
pig.?^ I see him in the act of theft. Shall he go with 
you ? ” 

“ He were hungry, that’s why Prince Squeaky stealed,” 
exclaimed Flea, dropping Flukey’s fingers. There was 
something in the kindly eyes of the man that forced her 
forward a step. She thrust out her hand in appealing 
anxiety. “ We was all hungry,” she continued, a dry 
sob strangling her. “ Flukey nor me nor the pig nor 
Snatchet ain’t e’t in a long time. We did steal; but if 
I knowed it were yer house — ” 

A quizzical expression flashing into Shellington’s eyes 
stopped her words. 

“ You wouldn’t have come in? ” he queried. 

Flea nodded just as Snatchet jumped to the floor with 


OF THE MISSING 


83 


another plump bird between his teeth. Flukey staggered 
to his sister’s side. 

“ Let me tell ye how it was, Mister,” he begged, his 
eyes bloodshot and restless. “ We be lookin’ for a good 
land where boys don’t have to steal, and when they get 
sick they get well again.” 

Here Flea burst forth impetuously. 

‘‘ He has such hellish rheumatiz that he can’t set in 
no dark prison. I can set weeks among rats and bugs 
what be in all prisons ! I ain’t afraid of nothing what 
lives ! ” 

Flukey interrupted her by taking her arm and push- 
ing her back a little. 

‘‘ I’m a thief by trade,” he said ; “ but my sister ain’t. 
She ain’t never stole nothin’ in all her life, she ain’t. Take 
me, will ye. Mister ? ” 

“ Sister ! ” murmured the gentleman, turning to Flea. 

If nothing else had been said, the question would have 
been answered in the affirmative by the vivid blush that 
dyed Flea’s dark skin. Her embarrassment brought an- 
other exclamation from Flukey. 

“ She’s a girl, all right ! She’s only tryin’ to save me. 
She put on my pants jest to get away from Pappy Lon. 
I’ll go to jail; but don’t send her! ” 

He swayed blindly, closing his eyes with a moan. 

“ The child is sick, Horace,” said Ann. “ I think he is 
very sick.” 

“ Where did you sleep last night ? ” Shellington asked 
this of Flea. 

Out there,” answered the girl, pointing over her shoul- 
der, “ down by a big monument.” 

“ Horace Shellington,” gasped Ann, “ they slept in the 
cemetery ! ” 

The sharp tone of the girl’s voice brought Flukey back 
to the present. 


84 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“We run away ’cause Pappy Lon were a makin’ me 
steal when I didn’t want to,” he explained, clearin*g his 
throat, “ and he was goin’ to make Flea be Lem’s woman. 
And that’s the truth. Mister, and Lem wasn’t goin’ to i: 
marry her, nuther ! ” j 

He rambled on in a monotone as if too sick for inflec- 
tion. Flea placed one arm about his neck. ^ 

“ I’m a girl ! I’m Flea Cronk ! ” she confessed brok- jj 
enly. “And Flukey’s doin’ all this for me! And he’s so || 
sick! I stealed from yer table — he didn’t! Will ye let 
him lay in yer barn tonight, if I go up for the stealin’? ” [ 
Never had Horace Shellington felt so keenly the sorrows i 
of other human beings as when this girl, in her crude boy * 
clothes, lifted her agonized, tearless eyes to his. His i 
throat filled. Somehow, his whole soul went out to her, I 
his being stirred to its depths. He put out one hand to | 
touch Flea — when voices from the inner room stopped 8 
further speech. A light step, accompanied by a heavier a 
one, approaching the dining-hall, brought his thoughts to- I 
gether. 

“ Ann,” he appealed, stepping to his sister’s side, | 
^‘you’re always wanting to do something for me — do it 
now. Let me settle this ! ” 

Speaking to Flukey, he said, “ Pick up your dog, Boy ! ” 

“ And the pig from the table ! ” groaned Ann distract- 
edly. 

Flukey mechanically stooped to obey, while Flea cap-] 
tured Squeaky and tucked the suckling under her arm 
just as Shellington opened the door to admit his guests.] 
When Flea lifted her embarrassed gaze to the strangers, 
she saw the same face that had peered at her over Horace’s 
shoulder at the Dry den fair, the face to which Screech 
Owl had made her silent appeal. A graceful girl fol- 
lowed, whose eyes expressed astonishment as Horace spoke. 


OF THE MISSING 


85 


“ These are my young friends, you will remember, 
Everett, from the fair. Flea and Flukey Cronk.’^ Turn- 
ing his misty eyes upon the children he continued, 
“ This is Mr. Brimbecomb, and Miss Katherine Vandecar, 
Governor Vandecar’s niece.” 

He went through this introduction to gain control of 
his feelings. 

‘‘ They have changed their minds, Everett, and have 
brought me the pig,” he exclaimed. It was kind of you, 
child!” 

He had almost said “ boy ” ; but, remembering the ad- 
mission Flea had made, he gazed straight at her, watching 
with growing interest the changes that passed over the 
young face. 

‘‘ You see,” he hurried on nervously, “ they found out 
where I lived, and thought I might still want the pig — ” 

Ann Shellington admonishingly touched her brother’s 
arm. “ Horace I ” she urged ; but he stopped her with a 
gesture. 

“ I think it mighty nice of them to come all the way 
from Dry den with a pig — on my soul, I do, Ann! ” 

Taking a silver case from his pocket, he extracted a 
cigarette from it, while directing his attention to Flea. 

“ I want it now as much as I did then ; but I don’t be- 
lieve that I shall ever roast and eat him.” 

Flea searched the speaker’s face fearfully, her eyes 
lustrous with melting tenderness. He had promised her 
that Squeaky should live ; but was he going to send Flukey 
away.f^ It was slow torture, this waiting for his verdict, 
each second measured full to the brim, each minute more 
agonizing than the last. 

Horace Shellington was speaking again. You see, 
Katherine,” he said, turning to the younger girl, “ I know 
this puzzles you; but these two youngsters won the pig 
at the fair, and I tried to buy it of them for a roast. 


86 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Just at that time this little — chap — he motioned toward 
Flea, “ didn’t want to part with it. He’s changed his 
mind. You see the pig is here.” 

Miss Shellington did not supplement her brother’s state- 
ment; but the tall stranger with the brilliant eyes gazed 
dubiously at the table and then down into Flea’s face. 

“ I’ll bet my hat,” he said in a tone deep and rich, 
“ that you boys have been thieving ! ” 

Before the frightened girl could respond, the master of 
the house stepped between them; but not before Flea had 
caught an expression that took her back to Screech Owl’s 
hut. 

“For shame, Everett!” chided Horace. “I have just 
told you that they were trying to do me a favor. The pig 
has come a long way, and I gave him some — salad. 
There’s plenty more in the larder.” 

It was hard for Horace Shellington to lie flagrantly, and 
his explanation sounded forced. The music in his voice 
pierced the childish lethargy of Flea’s soul, awakening it 
to womanhood. Intuition told her that he had lied for 
her sake. 

“ And you gave him the birds, too ? ” Everett asked 
sneer ingly, glancing at the scattered bones. 

“No, I gave the dog the birds,” replied Horace simply. 
“ It seemed,” he proceeded slowly, “ that just at that mo- 
ment I felt for the hungry dog and pig more than I did 
for my guests.” 

He had backed to his sister’s side with an imploring 
glance, and allowed his hand to rest lightly on hers. She 
understood his message, and met his appeal. 

“ And now these young people have been so good to us,” 
she said, “ we ought to repay them with a good supper* 
If you will come with me. Boys, you shall have what you i 
need. . . . Oh ! Yes, you can bring both the dog i 

and the pig.” 


OF THE MISSING 


87 


A tranquil smile, sweet and pathetic, erased the pain- 
wrinkles from Flukey’s face. Supper at last for his dear 
ones ! 

Ann held out her hand to him, and dazedly the sick lad 
took it in his hot fingers. Then, remembering Everett’s 
disapprobation of the boys, she glanced into his face; but, 
meeting a studiously indifferent, slightly bored look, she 
led Flukey away. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


F lukey was too ill, as he stumbled along, to dread 
the outcome of their act of theft. He realized only 
that a beautiful lady was leading Flea to a place 
where her hunger could be satisfied, and, as he felt the 
warmth of Ann’s fingers permeate his own famished body, 
a great courage urged him forward. He would never 
again steal at Lon’s command, and Flea would have to 
dread Lem no more ! Something infinitely sweet, like new- 
coming life, entered his soul. It was the first exquisite 
joy that had come to Flukey Cronk. He stopped and 
disengaged his hand, to press it to his side as a pain 
made him gasp for breath. Then of a sudden he sank 
to the polished floor, still clinging to Snatchet. 

‘‘Missus,” he muttered, “I can’t walk no more. Jest 
ye leave me here and git the grub for Flea.” 

Flea turned sharply. “ I don’t eat when ye’re sick. 
Fluke. The Prince says as how ye can sleep in the bam, 
and mebbe — mebbe he’ll let me work for the victuals 
Snatchet and Squeaky stole.” 

Flea added this hopefully. 

“ Children,” said Ann in a smothered voice, “ listen to 
me! You’re both welcome to all you’ve had, and more. 
The little dog and pig were welcome too.” 

Tears rose under her lids, and she turned her head away, 
that the twins might not see them. Ann Shellington, like 
her brother, had never before seen human misery depicted 
in small lives. At the mention of his dog. Flukey opened 
his eyes and turned his gaze upward. 

“ Thank ye, Lady,” said he, “ thank ye for what ye said 
88 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 89 


about Snatchet. Ain’t be a pink peacb of a dorg, Ma’m? ” 

Ann inclined her head gently, glancing dubiously over 
the yellow pup. She could not openly admit that Snatchet 
resembled anything beautiful she had ever seen, when the 
boy, his lips twitching with agony, held his pet up toward 
her. 

“Ye can take him, Ma’m,” groaned Flukey. “ He only 
bites bad ’uns like Lem Crabbe.” 

Snatchet, feeling the importance of the moment, lifted 
his head and shot forth a slavering tongue. As it came 
in contact with her fingers. Miss Shellington drew back a 
little. She had been used to slender-limbed, soft-coated 
dogs ; this small, shivering mongrel, touching her flesh with 
a tongue roughly beaded, sent a tremor of disgust over 
her. Flea stepped forward, took Snatchet from her 
brother, and tucked him away under the arm opposite the 
one Squeaky occupied. 

“ Ye’ll go to the barn. Fluke,” she said, “ and ye’ll go 
damn quick! The lady’ll let ye, and Snatchet’ll go with 
ye. Squeaky sleeps with me.” 

Ann coughed embarrassedly. “ Children,” she began, 
“ we couldn’t let the dog and pig sleep in the house ; 
neither could we allow you to sleep in the bam. So, if 
you will let the coachman take your pets. I’ll see that 
you. Boy, go into a warm bed, and you,” Ann turned to 
Flea, “ must have some supper and other clothes. Your 
brother is very ill, I believe, and I think we ought to have 
a doctor.” 

Flea pricked up her ears, and a sad smile crossed her 
lips. “ Ye mean, Ma’m,” said she, “ that Flukey can sleep 
in a real bed and have doctor’s liniments for his bones ? ” 

Ann nodded. “Yes. Now then hurry ! . . . Look 

at that poor little boy ! ” 

Flukey was on his knees, leaning against the wall, his 
feverish fingers clutching his curls. 


90 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘ Horace ! Horace ! ” called Ann. 

Shellington opened the dining-room door and went out: 
hurriedly, leaving Everett Brimbecomb and Katherine Van- 
decar still surveying the disarranged table. 

It all seems strange to me, Katherine ; I mean — ; 
this,” said Everett, waving his hand. “ I scarcely be- 
lieved Horace when he said he had allowed it.” 

As he spoke, he approached the table and lifted the 
soiled cloth between his fingers. 

“You can see for yourself,” he said, “the marks of 
the pig’s feet on the linen.” 

Katherine examined the spots. “ But it really doesn’t 
matter, does it.^^ ” she said. “ The poor little animals were 
hungry, and Horace has such a big heart ! ” and she 
sighed. 

Everett made an angry gesture. “ But I object to AnUj 
having anything to do with such — ” he hesitated andt 
finished, “ such youngsters. There’s no need of it.” 

“ Oh, Everett — but those two children must be cared 
for! Horace will come back in a few minutes, and thenj 
we’ll know all about it.” 

“ In the meantime I’m hungry,” grumbled Everett, 
“ and if we’re going to the theater — ” 

He had no time to finish his sentence before Horace, with 
a grave countenance, opened the door. 

“ I’m sorry, Katherine,” he apologized, and then 
stopped; for he noticed Everett’s face dark with anger. 
Shellington did not forget that his friends had come to 
dinner; but he had just witnessed a scene that had touched 
his heart, and he determined to make both of his guests 
understand it also. 

“ The evening has turned out differently from what 
Ann and I expected,” he explained. “ The fact is that 
sister can’t go to the theater, and I feel that I ought to 
stay with her. So, we’ll order another dinner, and then, 


OF THE MISSING 


91 


Everett, if you and Katherine don’t — ” His fingers had 
touched the bell as he was speaking; but Everett stopped 
him. 

“ If the boy is too ill to be taken to a hospital,” he said 
coldly, ‘‘ Ann might be persuaded to leave him with the 
servants.” 

“Yes, I suggested that,” answered Horace; “but she 
refused. The boy has somehow won her heart, and the 
doctor will be here at any moment.” 

A servant appeared, and in a half-hour the table was 
spread with another dinner. Ann’s coming to the dining- 
room did not raise the spirits of the party; for her eyes 
were red from weeping, and she refused to eat. 

“ I’ve never known before, Everett,” she said, “ that chil- 
dren could suffer as that little boy does.” 

“ And you shouldn’t know it now, Ann, if I had my 
way,” objected Brimbecomb. “There’s a strong line 
drawn between their kind and ours, and places have been 
provided for such people. I really want you to come with 
us tonight.” 

In sharp astonishment, Ann turned on him. 

“ Oh, I really couldn’t, Everett ! ” she said, beginning 
to sob. “ I shouldn’t enjoy one moment of the time, while 
thinking of that poor child. You take Katherine, and say 
to Governor and Mrs. Vandecar that we couldn’t come 
tonight. Tell them about it or not as you please. They 
are both good and kind, and will understand.” 

Her tears had ceased during the latter part of her 
speech; for the frown had deepened on Everett’s brow, 
bringing determination to her own. Never before had she 
been forced to exercise her wish above his, and Brimbe- 
comb was not prepared for it. Something new had been 
born in the large, sad eyes turned to his, something he 
did not comprehend, and he inwardly cursed the squatter 
children. 


92 


FROM THE VALLEY 


At eight o’clock Everett handed Katherine into the j 
carriage and gloomily took his place beside her. They ' 
were late at the theater by several minutes, when he brushed ' 
aside the curtain and ushered Miss Vandecar into the 
Governor’s box. Mrs. Vandecar was seated in the far 
comer, her attention directed upon the play. Vandecar 
rose quietly, and before resuming his seat waited until his 
niece had taken her place. Then they were silent until j 
the curtain fell after the first act. 

Where are Horace and Ann?” asked Mrs. Vandecar 
of Everett. ‘‘ Ann telephoned me at dinner-time that she 
would be here.” 

Everett inclined his head toward Katherine, and the ' 
girl explained the situation. When she had added pathos | 
to the story by telling of Flukey’s illness, Mrs. Vandecar , 
broke in. [ 

“ I’m glad Ann stayed, dear girl ! It’s like her to nurse 
that sick child.” She said no more ; but turned away with : 
misty eyes. 

During the next act the Governor drew near her, and ' 
amid the shadows of the darkened box, took up the slender j 
fingers and held them until the lights flashed upon the \ 
falling curtain. Both had gone back in memory to those 
dreadful days when tragedy had cast its somber shadows , 
over them. 

The doctor had predicted a serious illness for Flukey. 
Ann and Horace held an earnest conversation about it. ; 
Miss Shellington’s maid had been instructed to relieve Flea 
of her boy’s attire and clothe her in some of Ann’s gar- i 
ments. Horace led his sister to the room where Flukey j 
lay, and suggested that Flea be called. 

A servant appeared at the touch of the bell. 

‘‘ Tell the boy’s sister to come here,” said Horace. ' 

WLen Flea knocked at the door a few minutes later, he 


OF THE MISSING 


93 


bade her enter. Suppressing her pleasure and surprise 
at the girl’s loveliness, Ann walked forward to meet her; 
but the little stranger backed timidly against the door 
and flashed a blushing glance at the man. 

The mauve dressing-gown, reaching to the floor, dis- 
played to advantage the girl’s lithe figure, accentuating 
its long, graceful lines. The bodice, opened at the neck, 
exposed the slender white throat, around which the sum- 
mer’s sun had tanned a ruddy ring. Her hair had been 
parted in the center and twined in adorable curls about 
the young head. 

The transformation drew an untactful ejaculation from 
Horace, and he stared intently at the sensitive face. Flea’s 
gray eyes, after the first hasty glance at him, sought 
Flukey. 

“Flukey ain’t so awful sick, be he.?^” she (Questioned 
fearfully. 

Ann passed an arm tenderly around her. “ Yes, child, 
he is very ill. My brother and I want to speak to you 
about him.” 

“ But he ain’t goin’ dead ? ” 

Her tone brought Horace nearer. In spite of Flea’s 
somberness, the bouyancy of her youth obliterated the 
memory of every other girl he knew. He was confounded 
by the thought that a short time before she had stood 
as a ragged boy before him. She had been transformed 
into womanhood by Ann’s clothing. 

Flea bent over Flukey and hid her face. Even when 
Horace had discovered the pig in the salad, her embar- 
' rassment had been of small moment to this. After an 
I instant, she lifted her eyes from her muttering brother 
i and allowed them to fall upon her Prince. There was an 
unmistakable smile upon his lips; nevertheless, a great 
fear possessed her. If Flukey were allowed to stay there 
because of his illness, she at least would be taken away; 


91 


FROM THE VALLEY 


for she had never heard of a theft being entirely over- 
looked, and she believed that her imprisonment must be the 
penalty. 

She stooped a little and lovingly touched Flukey’s 
shoulder, looking first at Ann, then at Horace. Straight- 
ening up, she burst out: 

‘‘ Mister, if ye’re goin’ to have me pinched for stealin’, 
do it quick before my brother knows about it, and — I’d 
ruther go to prison in Fluke’s pants — please ! ” 

Still the master of the house did not speak. Flea was 
filled with suspicion, and thought she divined the cause of 
his quietness and smile. He was ridiculing her dress, per- 
haps making sport of the way her curls were arranged. 
She thrust one hand upward and tumbled the mass of hair 
into disorder. 

“ Yer woman put these togs onto me,” she said, “ and 
I feel like an old guy — dressed up this way ! ” 

Anger forced tears into her eyes, and her two small 
brown hands clenched under the hanging lace at her wrists. 
Her words and the spontaneous action deepened the ex- 
pression on the face of the silent man, and she cried out 
again : 

“Ye needn’t be making fun of me. Mister! I can’t 
help how I look.” 

But a feverish exclamation from the sick boy so in- 
creased her anxiety for him that her own troubles were 
overwhelmed. She was rendered unmindful that Ann had 
softly called her name; nor did she realize that Shellington 
had spoken quietly to her. 

She flung out her hands in eloquent appeal. 

“ Oh, I thank ye for covering my brother up so warm ! 
He didn’t need no sheets nor piller-slips ; but his bones 
did need the blankets — sure. I say as how he’d thank ye, 
too, if he weren’t offen his head.” 

I 

‘i 


OF THE MISSING 


95 


Horace gently took the girl’s hands in his, and Flea 
lowered her sun-browned face. 

“ I know he would, child,” he said in moved tones. 

He s more than welcome to all we can do — and you are 
.to stay here, too, little girl.” 

Horace had done what Ann had been unable to do. The 
words had soothed the squatter girl, and the savage young 
heart was softened. The long, dreary country marches 
were over ; the cold nights and bare fields were things of 
the past. For Flukey, there were tender hands that would 
ease his pain ; for her, a home unmenaced by Lem. She 
had looked her last upon horrors that had bound her to 
a life she hated. 

Shellington spoke to her. 

“ Look at me, child ! ” said he. “ I want to tell you 
what the doctor said.” 

She lifted an anxious gaze filled with the emotion of a 
woman’s soul. It was her dawning womanhood that 
Horace saw, and toward it his manhood was unconsciously 
drawn. 

Ann spoke quietly: 

‘‘ The doctor says that your brother will be ill many 
weeks, and we have decided to keep him here with us, if 
you consent to our arrangements.” 

“ Ye mean,” gasped Flea, snatching her hands from 
Horace, “ ye mean that Flukey can lay in that there bed 
till he gets all well and all the misery has gone out of 
his bones ? ” 

Ann’s answer meant much to Flea. The girl had real- 
ized the import of the speech; but, that she m‘ght better 
understand the words, she had sent them q >cstioniD,.,ly 
back in her vernacular for further confirmation. 

“ If you are willing to stay with us,” Horace was say- 
ing, “ and will help us take care of him — ” 


96 


FROM THE VALLEY 


He could not have offered anything else that would so 
have touched her. How she had longed to do something 
for Flukey those last hours in the graveyard! But Flea 
wanted no mistake. Did the gentleman understand how 
terribly poor they were.^^ 

“We ain’t got no money, and we only own Squeaky and 
Snatchet.” 

Shellington smiled at the interruption. 

“ You will still own your dog and pig, child, if you 
ever wish to go away. My sister and I are anxious to 
have your brother grow strong and well. He has rheu- 
matic fever, which is sometimes very stubborn, and if we 
don’t work hard — ” 

He paused, tempted to pass one arm about the girl as 
his sister had done ; but the womanliness of her forbade. 

“Ye think Flukey mightn’ get well.? ” Flea breathed. 

Ann turned anxious eyes upon the boy, who was mut- 
tering incoherently. 

“ Poor little child 1 May Jesus help him ! ” she whis- 
pered. 

Flea rose to her feet. 

“ Jesus ! Jesus ! ” she repeated solemnly. “ Granny 
Cronk used to talk about him. He’s the Man what’s 
a sleepin’ in the grave with the kid with the same name as 
that bright-eyed duffer who don’t like Fluke nor me.” 

Ann, mystified, glanced at Horace, 

Flukey turned slowly, opened his eyes, and murmured; 

“ ‘ Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little — ’ ” 

He sighed painfully as the last words trailed from his 
lips. Flea ended his quotation, saying: 

“‘A little child.’ But, Flukey, Jesus is dead and 
buried.” 

“ No, no. He isn’t, child! ” cried Ann sharply. “ He’ll 
never die. He will always help little children.” 

“ Ain’t He a restin’ in the dead man’s yard out there ? ” 


OI' THE MISSING 


97 


demanded Flea, lifting her robe as she moved toward Ann. 

‘‘ No ! indeed, no ! He is everywhere, with the dead and 
the living, with men and women, and also with little chil- 
dren.” 

“ Where be He.? ” Flea asked. 

In Heaven,” replied Ann, leaning over Flukey. 
“ And He’s able even to raise the dead.” 

Flea grasped her arm. 

“ Then, if He’s everywhere, as ye’ve jest said, can’t 
ye — ” 

Flukey opened his eyes. 

“If ye know that Man Jesus, well enough,” he broke 
forth, trying to take her hand in his, “ if ye ever sees 
Him to speak to Him, will ye say that, if He’ll let my bones 
get well, and keep my little Flea from Lem, I’ll do all 
He says for me to.? Tell Him — tell — tell Him, Ma’m, 
that my bones be — almost a bustin’.” 

“ Can He help Fluke any if ye ask Him .? ” Flea ques- 
tioned. 

Ann nodded; but Flea, not satisfied, asked the question 
directly of Horace. 

“ I believe so,” he hesitated ; “ yes, I do believe that He 
can and will help your brother.” 

- “ Will ye ask Him.? ” Flea pleaded. “ Will ye both ask 
Him.? ” 

Ann answered yes quickly; and Flea was satisfied with 
the nod Horace gave her before he wheeled about to the 
window. 

When Flukey was resting under the physician’s medi- 
cine, Horace and Ann listened to the tale of the squatter 
children’s lives, told by Flea. It was then that Shel- 
lington promised her that Squeaky should find a future 
home on their farm among other animals of the kind, and 
that he would make it his task to see that the little pig 
had plenty to eat, plenty of sunshine, and a home such 


98 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


as few little pigs had. Snatchet, too, Horace promised, 
should be housed in a warm kennel with the greyhounds 
and blooded pups. 

When Flea leaned over Flukey to say goodnight to him, 
she breathed: 

‘‘ This be the promised land, all right. Fluke ! Ain’t 
we lucky kids to be here ? ” 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


W ITH infinite tenderness, Ann led Flea into the 
pretty blue bedroom. The girl drew back with 
an exclamation. 

‘‘ It’s too nice for a squatter ! But I’m glad you put 
Fluke in that red place, ’cause it looks so warm and feels 
warm. But me — ” 

Ann interrupted hastily, 

‘‘ You remember my brother saying that you were going 
to stay here with us until your brother was well ? ” 

Flea assented. 

“ Then, as long as you are with us, you will be our 
guest just as though you were my sister. Would you like 
to be my sister? ” 

Flea dropped her gaze before the earnest eyes. 

“ Yep ! ” she choked. “ But I’m a squatter. Missus, and 
squatters don’t count for nothin’. But Fluke — ” 

Poor child ! She can’t think of anyone but her 
brother,” Miss Shellington murmured to herself. 

But Flea caught the words. 

‘‘ He’s so good — oh, so awful good — and he ain’t 
never had no chance with Pappy Lon. If he gets well, 
we’ll work together, and we won’t steal nothin’ ever no 
more.” 

“ I feel positive you won’t,” assured Ann. “ You re- 
member, I told you tonight how very good God is to all 
His children, and you are a child of His, and you know 
that the Bible says that you must never take anything 
that doesn’t belong to you.” 

“ Nope, I ain’t never seen no Bible,” faltered Flea. 

99 


100 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Then I’m going to give you one, and you can learn to 
read it. Wouldn’t you be happy if your brother should 
get well, and you knew that your prayers had done it? ” 

“ It wouldn’t be me, Ma’m ; ’twould be you and your 
brother.” 

Ann considered how she should best begin to open the 
young mind to truth. 

‘‘ Child, would you like me to tell you a story ? ” she 
asked presently. 

“ Yep,” replied Flea eagerly. ‘‘ Is it about fairies, or 
ghosts, or goblins what live near lakes ? ” 

“ No ; it’s about Jesus, who died to save the world.” 

Then gently and simply Ann told the story of the Pas- 
sion to the wondering girl, and shortly after left her to 
sleep. 

Miss Shellington went to her brother’s study, and he 
met her with a quizzical smile. 

“ You’ve woven a net about yourself. Sis, haven’t you? ” 
said he. 

“ And about you, too. Dear,” Ann retorted. ‘‘ But, 
Horace, I shouldn’t have thought of keeping them, if you 
hadn’t consented.” 

She looked so troubled, her brow puckered up in 
thought, that he smiled again. 

‘‘ Of course, you wouldn’t — I know that. But I’m 
not in the least sorry. We’ve money enough to do a 
kindness once in awhile. And as long as you don’t work 
yourself to death over them I sha’n’t complain.” 

They were silent for a little while. Then presently- 
Ann spoke musingly: 

“ Horace, do those children remind you of someone? ” 

“ I don’t know that they do. I’m not a fellow who 
notices resemblances. Why? ” 

“ I can’t tell. Only, when they stood there tonight by 


OF THE MISSING 


101 


the table, looking so forlorn, there was something famil- 
iar about them.” 

Your dear, tender heart imagined it,” Horace de- 
clared. 

“ Possibly. Still, the feeling has been with me ever 
since. Horace, I’ve always wanted to do some real work, 
and don’t you think this — ” 

‘‘Hark!” Horace interrupted. “Wasn’t that the 
bell.? ” 

“ Yes, it’s Everett, I hope,” said Ann, rising, “ I 
thought perhaps he would run in. Yes, I hear his voice! 
Shall I bring him in here for a few moments.? ” . 

“ Yes.” 

When Everett came in, Horace noted that he had lost 
the frown. Brimbecomb good naturedly demanded if 
Ann intended to start a kindergarten. He recounted how 
Mr. and Mrs. Vandecar had received their excuses, and 
then said: 

“ Ann, Mrs. Vandecar thought you so charitably in- 
clined. She seemed quite exercised over the story. But 
you don’t intend to keep them here after tomorrow morn- 
ing, do you.? ” 

“ Well, you see, Everett,” Ann explained, “ Horace and 
I have talked for a long time about doing some real char- 
ity work: so now we’re going to try an experiment.” 

“ These boys — ” 

Ann interrupted. “ One of them is a girl.” 

Horace saw the change on Brimbecomb’s face and said 
hurriedly : 

“ The girl had on her brother’s clothes, that’s all.” 

“ Strange proceedings all the way through, though,” 
snapped Eyerett. 

He was showing himself in a new light, and Horace 
noted that the young lawyer’s face bore sarcasm and un- 


loa 


FROM THE VALLEY 


pleasant cynicism. He wondered that his gentle, obedient 
sister had gathered courage to stand against her lover’s 
wishes; for Everett had expressed a decided objection to 
Ann’s working for the squatter children. Suddenly he 
felt a twinge of dislike for the man before him, and his 
respect for Ann deepened. How many girls, he rea- 
soned, would have the courage and desire thus to take 
in two suffering children He rose quickly and left the 
room. 

Everett took up the argument again with Miss Shelling- 
ton : 

‘‘ Ann, you’re going very much against my wishes if 
you keep those children here.” 

“ I’m sorry. Dear,” she said simply ; but you know — ” 

I know that you won’t do anything of which I dis- 
approve, Ann.” 

“ You’re mistaken, Everett,” Ann contradicted slowly. 

‘‘ I could not allow even you to mark out my duty. And 
something makes me so anxious to help them! I don’t 
want to go against your wishes ; but — I must do as my 
conscience dictates.” 

“ Surely you don’t mean, Ann, that if you were my wife 
you would force — ” 

“Please don’t, Everett! No, of course not; but this 
is Horace’s home and mine, and, if we desire to share it 
with someone less fortunate than we are, you shouldn’t 
object.” 

Everett took up no more time in vain argument; but i 
registered a vow that he would make it warm for the i 
beggars who had thrust themselves upon the Shellingtons. i 
He would search for an opportunity ! Impatient and un- i 
settled, he left Ann. She, too, was unhappy; for it had | 
been the first time her duty had ever clashed with her j 
love. iThe shock of the collision hurt. I 


OI' THE MISSING 


103 


The next morning Flea crept into her brother’s room 
and stood looking down at him. He opened his eyes 
languidly, smiled, and groaned. 

Ain’t yer bones any better this momin’.^ ” asked Flea 
in an awed whisper. 

“ Yep ; but my heart hurts me. The pains round it be 
worse than the misery in my knees, ’cause I can’t breathe.” 

Flea bent lower. 

“ Did the pretty lady tell ye anythin’ last night? ” 

“ Nope; did she tell you anythin’? ” 

Yep, all about the Jesus. Get her to tell you. Fluke. 
It’s better than fairy stories. I can’t remember all of it; 
but she says He jest loved everybody so well that He let 
’em nail Him on a cross, and died there. But He got up 
again, and that’s how He came to be up there.” 

Flea pointed upward. 

‘‘Did Miss — Miss Shellington tell ye that?” 

“ Yep, Fluke.” She hesitated and whispered again, 
“ Do ye believe it, Fluke ? ” 

“ Course I do, if she says it ! Don’t ye think what she 
says is so? ” 

“ I don’t believe all that,” replied Flea. “ I tried last 
night, and couldn’t. You used to laugh at me when I said 
as how there was ghosts.” 

“ Mebbe she don’t believe in ghosts,” sighed Flukey. 

“ It’s almost the same. She believes in Jesus.” 

“ He’s all I believe in, too.” Flukey closed his eyes 
wearily. 

“ Fluke,” whispered Flea presently, “ ye ought to see 
that room I slep’ in! It were finer’n this one.” 

“ This be the promised land, all right, what Scraggy 
speaked about,” said Flukey. “ There ain’t no more 
places like it in this here world.” 

“ I believe that, too,” answered Flea, “ and if we hadn’t 


104 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


been hungry we’d never have stealed, and we wouldn’t 
have found Mr. and Miss Shellington. Yet she says it’s 
wicked to steal.” 

‘‘ So it be, Flea, and ye know it. All ye’re tryin’ to 
do now is not to believe about that Jesus. I bet some- 
thin’ll come that’ll make ye believ^ it.” 

“ Mebbe,” mumbled Flea darkly ; but ’s long ’s ’tain’t 
Pappy Lon or Lem, I don’t care.” 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

D uring the next two weeks, while Flukey was fight- 
ing^ with death, and the great Shellington mansion 
was as silent as a tomb. Scraggy Peterson was 
tramping back to the squatter country. ^When she 
reached Ithaca, she was almost too ill to start up the 
Lehigh Valley tracks toward her hut. The black cat 
clung to her tattered jacket, his wizard-eyes shining 
green, as Screech Owl passed under the gas-lamps. It 
was almost ten o’clock at night when she unlatched her 
shanty door and kindled a fire. The larder was bare, 
save for some crusts of hard bread. These the woman 
soaked in hot water and shared with the cat. Then, in 
a state of great exhaustion, she picked up Black Pussy, 
blew out the candle, and, for the first time in many days, 
slept in her own hut. 

On the shore below Lem Crabbe’s scow was drawn up 
near the Cronk hut. The squatter and scowman were 
conversing in the dim light of a lantern that swung from 
Lem’s hook. 

‘‘ Did ye make any hauls while ye was gone, Lem ? ” 
asked Lon. 

‘‘ Nope, only sold the lumber. I ain’t trying nothin’ 
alone.” 

‘‘ It was cussed mean I couldn’t go along with ye,” Lon 
said; ‘‘but I had to stay to hum. Did ye know that 
Mammy were dead.? ” 

“ Nope!” 

“ Yep, and buried, too ! She fretted over the brats, 

105 


106 


FROM THE VALLEY 


and kep’ a sayin’ they was dead in the lake. But I know 
they jest runned off some’ers.” 

‘‘ I know it, too,” Lem grunted savagely. ‘‘ The gal 
didn’t have no likin’ for me.” 

“ I jest see Scraggy come hum,” ventured Lon. “ She’s 
been gone for a long while. She were a cornin’ down the 
tracks.” 

Lem muttered a savage oath, and faced the scow pre- 
paratory to entering. Looking back over his shoulder, he 
asked : 

“ Be ye cornin’ in, Lon ? ” 

“Nope; I’m goin’ to bed. . Say, Lem, while ye was 
away, ye didn’t get ear of no good place to make a haul 
soon, did je? ” 

“ Yep ; I tied up to Tarry town goin’ down. There 
be heaps of rich folks there. Middy Burnes what runs 
the tug says as how there be a feller there richer than 
the devil. . , . Hell ! I’ve forgot his name ! ” 

Lem halted on the gangplank and thought for a mo- 
ment. 

“Nope, I ain’t; I jest thought of it! . . . Shel- 

lington! That’s him, and he’s a fine house, and many’s 
the room filled with — ” 

Lon broke in upon Lem with a growl: 

“Then we’ll separate him from some of his jewjaws. 
I bet we has a little of his pile afore another month goes 
by ! ” 

“ That’s what I bet, too,” muttered Lem. “ Night, 
Lon.” 

“ Night,” repeated Lon, walking away. 

Lem placed the lantern on the table and sat down to 
think. Ever since the day Screech Owl had told him of 
the boy he had wounded so many years before his mind 
had worked constantly with the thought that he must find 


OF THE MISSING 


107 


the home where his son was. Scraggy was the only human 
being to tell him. She must tell him! He would make 
her, if he had to choke the woman to death to get her 
secret 1 He remembered how she had mocked at him when 
she had told him that strange bit of news. Realizing that 
Scraggy’s malady made her difficult to coerce, he decided 
to try cajolery at once. 

Lem rose and took a bit of bread from the cupboard 
shelf. He slipped it into a bag, caught up the lantern 
with his hook, and left the scow. He halted in front of 
Scraggy’s dark hut and pounded on the door. The cat, 
scrambling to the floor inside, was Lem’s answer. He 
knocked again. 

Scraggy 1 Scraggy ! ” he called. “ It be Lemmy ! 
Open the door I ” 

Through her deep sleep came the voice Screech Owl had 
loved, and still loved. She sat up in bed, trembling vio- 
lently, pushing back with a pathetic gesture the gray hair 
from her eyes. She had been dreaming of Lem — dream- 
ing that she had heard his voice. But black pussy 
couldn’t have dreamed also. He was perched in the small 
window, lashing his great tail from side to side. She 
slid from the bed, stretched out a bony hand, and clutched 
the cat. 

‘‘ Did ye hear him, too, black pussy ? ” 

“ Scraggy I ” called Lem ^gain. “ Open the door ! I 
brought you something to eat.” 

It was the thought of the time when he had loved her 
so, and not of the food he had brought, that forced 
Scraggy to the door. She flung it open, and the scowman 
entered. 

‘‘ I thought ye might be hungry. Scraggy ; so I brought 
ye this bread,” said Lem, lifting the hook and sending a 
ray from the lantern upon the woman. “ Can I set 
down ? ” 


108 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Could he, this king among men to her, could he sit 
down in her hut? He could have had her heart’s blood 
had he asked it! Had she not crowned him that day, 
when he had stood awkwardly by, as she tendered him a 
dark-haired baby boy? Scraggy’s happiness knew no 
bounds. She forgot her fatigue and set forth a chair for 
Lem. 

“ Be ye glad to see me. Scraggy? ” asked he presently, 
crossing his legs and watching her as she lighted some 
candles. 

More’n glad,” she replied simply. “ But what did ye 
come for, Lemmy? ” 

Lem remained silent for some seconds; then said: 

“ Do ye want to come back to the scow. Scraggy? ” 

“Ye mean to live?” 

Lem shoved out his hairy chin. 

“ Yep, to live,” said he. 

“Did ye come to ask me back, Lemmy? ” 

“ Yep, or I wouldn’t have been here. I’ve been thinkin’ 
our fambly oughter be together.” 

“ Fambly ! ” echoed Screech Owl wonderingly. 

“ Yep, Scraggy. We’ll get the boy again, and all of 
us’ll live on the scow.” 

His swarthy face went yellow in the candlelight, and 
the huge goiter under his chin evidenced by its movements 
the emotion through which he was passing. Scraggy had 
sunk to the floor. Now she crawled nearer him, staring 
at his face with wonder-widened eyes. 

“ Do ye mean, Lemmy, that ye love yer pretty boy brat 
well enough to want him on the scow, and that he can eat 
all he wants? ” 

“ That’s what I mean,” grunted Lem. 

“ And that ye mean me to tell him what ye says, Lemmy, 
and that ye want me to bring him back? ” 

“ Yep.” 


OF THE MISSING 


109 


Scraggy had drawn closer and closer to Lem, her sad 
face wrinkling into deeper lines. With each uttered 
word Lem had seen that he had conquered her. Sud- 
denly he dropped his heavy left hand down on the gray 
head and kept it there. 

For the first time in many weary years Scraggy 
Peterson was kneeling before her man. Now he 
wanted her! He had asked her to come again to that 
precious haven of rest, and to bring the child! Scraggy 
forgot that the babe she had passed through the barge 
window was grown to be a man, forgot that he might 
not want to come back to the scow with her and his 
father. 

Lem drew her close between his heavy knees and touched 
her withered chin with his fingers. 

“ Where be the brat. Scraggy ? ” he wheedled. 

Screech Owl lifted her head and drew back frightened. 
Something warned her that she must not tell him where 
his son lived. 

“ I’ll get him for ye,” she said doggedly. 

Where be he.'^ ” demanded the scowman. 

“ I ain’t tellin’ ye where he be now, Lem.” Scraggy’s 
tone was sulky. 

“ Why.? ” 

“ ’Cause I’ll go and get him. I’ll bring him to the 
scow lessen — lessen — ” 

‘‘Lessen what.?” cried Lem darkly. 

“Lessen a month,” replied Scraggy, “and ye’ll kiss 
the brat, and he’ll call ye ‘ Daddy,’ and he’ll love ye like I 
do, Lemmy dear.” 

Lem was rigid, as the woman smoothed down his shaggy 
gray hair and patted his hard face. Suddenly he started 
to his feet. 

“ Ye say. Scraggy, that ye’ll bring the boy lessen a 
month.? ” 


110 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Yep, lessen a month. And, Lemmy, he be a beautiful 
baby! Ye’ll love him, will ye, Lemmy? ” 

‘‘ Yep. And now ye take yer cat. Screechy, and get 
back to bed, and when ye get the boy bring him to the 
scow.” He hesitated a moment; then said, “Ye don’t 
know, do ye, where Flea and Flukey run to ? ” 

Scraggy’s face dropped. 

“ Be they gone ? ” she stammered, rising. 

“Yep, for a long time; and Granny Cronk be dead.” 

“ Then ye didn’t get Flea, Lem? ” 

“Nope. And I don’t want the brat. Scraggy; I only 
want the boy.” He spoke with meaning, and when he 
stood on the hut steps he turned back to finish, “ Ye’ll 
bring him, will ye. Owl? ” 

“ Yep, Lemmy love, lessen a month.” 

Scraggy greedily watched the shadowy form move away 
in the light of the lantern. “ Pussy, Pussy,” she muttered, 
as she closed the door, “ black Pussy, come a beddy ; yer 
ole mammy be that happy that her heart’s a bustin’.” 

When Screech Owl, although the happiest woman in the 
squatter settlement, fell asleep with the cat in her arms, 
her pillow was wet with tears. 

Through long days of anxious waiting for Flukey’s 
recovery. Flea struggled with the Bible lessons Ann set 
for her each day. Yet she could not grasp the meaning 
of faith. She prayed nightly; but uttered her words 
mechanically, for the Savior in the blue sky seemed beyond 
her conception. In spite of Miss Shellington’s tender 
pleading, in spite of the fact that Flukey believed stanchly 
all that Ann had told them. Flea suffered in her disbelief. 
Many times she sought consolation in Flukey’s faith. 

“ Ye see. Flea, can’t ye,” he said, one morning, “ that 
when Sister Ann says a thing it’s so? Can’t ye see it. 
Flea? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


111 


“ Nope, I can’t. I don’t know how God looks. I can’t 
understand how Jesus ruz after he’d been dead three days.” 

“ He did that ’cause He were one-half God,” explained 
Flukey, and then, brightening, added, ‘‘ Sister Ann telled 
me that if He hadn’t been a sufferin’ and a sufferin’, and 
hadn’t loved everybody well enough, God wouldn’t have 
let Him ruz. ’Twa’n’t by anything He did after He were 
dead that brought Him standin’ up again.” 

“ Then who did it.?* ” queried Flea. 

“ God did — jest as how He said ’way back there when 
there wasn’t any world, ‘ World, come out! ’ and the world 
came. He said, ‘Jesus, stand up!’ and Jesus stood up. 
That’s as easy as rollin’ off a log. Flea.” 

She had heard Ann explain it, too ; but it seemed easier 
when Flukey interpreted it. 

“ If I could see and speak to Him once,” she mourned, 
“ I could make Sister Ann glad by tellin’ her that I knowed 
He’d answer me.” 

“ Ask Him to let ye see Himself,” advised Flukey, 
“ He’ll do it, I bet ! Will ye. Flea.? ” 

“Nope! I’d be ’fraid if He came and stood near me. 
I’m ’fraid even now when I think of Him; but ’cause I 
can’t believe ’tain’t no reason why you can’t. Fluke.” 

She turned her head toward the door and listened. 

“ Brother Horace ain’t like Sister Ann,” she whispered. 
. “ Nobody ain’t like her. Flea. She’s the best ever! ” 

“Yep, so she is. But I wish as how — ” She paused, 
and a burning blush spread over her face. “ I wish as 
how Brother Horace had Sister Ann’s way of talking to 
me. I could — ” 

“ Brother Horace ain’t nothin’ to do with yer believin’. 
Flea.” 

“ Yep, he has, and when he says as how he believes like 
Miss Shellington, then I’ll believe, too. See? ” 

Then Flea fell into a stubborn silence. 


112 


FROM THE VALLEY 


One afternoon in December, Ann and Horace sat con- 
versing in the library. 

‘‘ I don’t see how Mrs. Vandecar can refuse to help you 
get that child into school, Ann.” 

“ I don’t believe she will ; but Everett thinks she ought.” 

“ Everett’s getting some queer notions lately,” Horace 
said reluctantly. 

Ann’s heart ached dully — the happiness she had had 
in her lover had diminished of late. Constantly unpleas- 
ant words passed between them on subjects of so little 
importance that Ann wondered, when she was alone, why 
they should have been said at all. Several times Brimbe- 
comb had refused to further his acquaintance with the 
twins. 

“ I only wish he would like those poor children,” said 
she. “I care so little what our other friends think!” 

Shellington pondered a moment. He reflected on Flea’s 
beseeching face as she pleaded for Flukey, and he de- 
cided that the censure of all his acquaintances could not 
take his protection from her. 

“ No, I don’t care for the opinion of any of them,” he 
replied deliberately. “ I want only your happiness. Sis, 
and — theirs.” 

“ Wouldn’t it be nice if we could find respectable names 
for them.f^” Ann said presently. “One can’t harmonize 
them with ‘ Flea ’ and ‘ Flukey.’ ” 

After a silence of a few moments, Horace spoke : 

“ What do you think about calling them Floyd and 
Fledra, Ann ? ” 

“ Oh, but would we dare do that, Horace ? ” 

“Why not.^ It wouldn’t harm the Vandecars, and the 
children might be better for it. We could impress upon 
them what an honor it would be.” 

“ But the Vandecars’ own little lost children had those 


names.' 


OF THE MISSING 


113 


“ That’s true, too ; but I haven’t the least idea that either 
one of them will take offense, if you explain that we think 
it will help the youngsters.” 

Shall I speak with Mrs. Van decar about it this after- 
noon ? ” asked Ann. 

Yes, just sound her, and see what she says.” 

“ I might as well go to her right away, then, Horace. 
You talk with the little girl about going to school while 
I’m gone. You can do so much more with her than I 
can.” 

“ All right,” said Horace, “ and I feel very sure that we 
won’t have any trouble with her.” 

After seeing his sister depart, he returned to the library 
and, before settling himself in a chair, sent a summons to 
Flea. 

When the girl appeared, Horace rose and cast smiling 
eyes of approval over her. 

That’s a mighty pretty dress you have on,” said he. 

Was it Sister’s idea to put that lacy, frilly stuff on it? ” 

Flea crimsoned at his praise, as she nodded affirmation. 

“ Sit here in this chair,” invited Shellington. “ I want 
to have a little chat with you this afternoon.” 

Unconsciously Flea put herself into an attitude of 
graceful attention and gazed at him worshipfully. At 
that moment Horace felt how very much he desired that 
she grow into a good woman. 

‘‘ How do you think your brother is today ? ” he ques- 
tioned kindly. 

“ He’s awful sick,” replied Flea. 

“ I fear, too, that he will be very ill for a long time. 
He was filled with the fever when he came here. Now, 
my sister and I have been talking it over — ” 

Flea rose half-hesitantly. 

“ And ye wants me to take him some’ers else ? ” she ques- 
tioned. 


FROM THE VALLEY 


lU 

Horace motioned again for her to be seated. 

“ Sit down, child,” said he ; “ you’re quite wrong in your 
hasty guess. No, of course, you’re not to go away. But 
my sister and I desire that while you are here you should 
study, and that you should come in contact with other 
girls of your own age. We want you to go to school.” 

“ Study — study what.?^ ” 

“ Why, learn to read and write, and — ” 

“ Ye mean I have to leave Flukey, and — and you.? ” 

She had risen and had come close to him, her eyes filled 
with burning tears. Horace felt his throat tighten; for 
any emotion in this girl affected him strangely. 

‘‘ Oh, no ! You won’t go away from home — at least, 
not at night; only for a few hours in the daytime. I’m 
awfully anxious that you should learn. Flea.” 

She came even closer as she said: 

‘‘ I’ll do anything you want me to — ’cause ye be the 
best ole duffer in New York State!” Then she whirled 
and fled from the room. 


Ann Shellington rang the Vandecar doorbell, and a few 
minutes later was ushered upstairs. Mrs. Vandecar was 
in a negligee gown, and Katherine was brushing the in- 
valid’s hair. 

“ Pardon me, Ann dear,” said Mrs. Vandecar, “ for re- 
ceiving you in this way; but I’m ill today.” 

“ I’m so sorry 1 It’s I who ought to ask pardon for com- 
ing. But I knew that no one could aid me except you in 
the particular thing I am interested in.” 

“ I shall be glad to help you, if I can, Ann. . . . 
There, Katherine, just roll my hair up. Thank you, 
Girly.” 

Ann had seated herself, and now spoke of her errand : 

“ You’ve heard of our little charges who came so 
strangely to us not long ago ? ” 


•4 






OF THE MISSING 


115 


Mrs. Vandecar nodded. 

“ Horace and I wish to do something for them. It seems 
as if they had been sent to us by Providence. The lad is 
very ill, and the girl ought to go to school. We were won- 
dering if you could have her admitted for special lessons 
to Madame Duval’s. The school associations would do 
such a lot for her.” As Ann continued, she marked Mrs. 
Vandecar’s hesitation. “ I know very well. Dear, that I 
am asking you a serious thing; but Brother and I think 
that it would do her a world of good.” 

Mrs. Vandecar thoughtfully received the shawl Katherine 
brought her. Then she looked straight at Ann and said: 

“ Everett doesn’t approve of your work, does he, Ann ? ” 

Miss Shellington colored, and fingered her engagement 
ring. 

‘‘ No,” she replied frankly ; ‘‘ but it’s because he refuses 
to know them. They’re little dears! I’ve explained to 
him our views, and have promised that they shall not in- 
terfere with any plans he and I may make. I’ve never 
seen Horace vitally interested before, or at least so much 
so. Now, do you think that you would be willing to do 
this for us ? Mildred’s going to the school, and you being 
a patroness will make Madame Duval listen to such a 
proposal from you.” 

Mrs. Vandecar turned upon her visitor searchingly. 

‘‘ Are you doing right, Ann, in taking these children into 
your home life.?^ I appreciate your good-heartedness; 
but — ” 

“ Horace and I have talked it all over,” Interjected Ann, 
‘‘ and we are both assured that we are doing what is right. 
Won’t you think it over, and let us know what you decide? 
If you find you can’t do it — why, we’ll arrange some other 
way.” 

The plan of naming the children came into her mind; 
but she hesitated before broaching it. Mrs. Vandecar was 


116 


FROM THE VALLEY 


a type of everything high-bred and refined. Would it of- 
fend her aristocratic sense to have the children named after 
her and her husband.^ Ann overcame her timidity and 
spoke : 

“ Fledra, there’s another thing I wanted to speak of. 
The children came to us without proper names, and 
Horace suggested that we call them Floyd and Fledra. 
Would you mind.? ” 

Mrs. Vandecar drew back a little, a shade passing over 
her face. A painful memory ever present seized her. 
Long ago two babies had been called after their father 
and mother — after her and her strong husband. Could 
she admit that she did not care.? Could she consent to 
Ann’s request .? Ann noted her struggle, and said quickly : 

“I’m sorry — forgive me. Dear!” 

Mrs. Vandecar’s face brightened, and she smiled. 

“ I thought at first that I didn’t want you to ; but I 
won’t be foolish. Of course, call them whatever you wish. 
Floyd won’t mind, either.” 

Horace met his sister expectantly. 

“ Did you ask her about the names, Ann.? ” 

“ Yes. At first she was not inclined to either of our 
plans ; but she has such a tender heart.” 

“ So she has,” responded Horace. 

“ She consented about the names ; but said that she 
would send me word about the school.” 

“ And she didn’t give a ready consent .? ” 

“ No ; but I’m almost sure that she will do it. And now 
about Flea. Did you talk with her ? ” 

“ Yes. She consented to go to school, and said — that 
I was the best old duffer in New York State.” 

“ Oh, Horace ! She must be taught not to use such 
language. It’s dreadful! Poor little dear!” 

“ It’ll take sometime to alter that,” replied Horace, 


OF THE MISSING 


117 


shaking his head. “ They’ve had a fearful time, and she’s 
been used to talking that way always ; she’s heard noth- 
ing else. You can’t alter life’s habits in a day.” 

“ But Madame Duval won’t have her if she’s impudent,” 
said Ann. 

“ Oh, but she’s scarcely that,” expostulated Horace ; 
“ she doesn’t understand. I’ll try to correct her sometime.” 

But he felt the blood come up to his hair as he promised; 
for it seemed almost impossible to approach the girl with 
a matter so personal. For the present, he dismissed the 
thought. 

“ What about the names, Ann ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ As you wish. Dear ; Fledra doesn’t care.” 

From that moment, the boy, struggling with fever, and 
the gray-eyed girl, so like him, were called Floyd and 
Fledra Cronk. 

One morning in January, the day before Flea was to 
begin her school work, she was passing through the hall 
that led to the front door. Her face was grave with 
timidity; although for hours Ann had been trying to 
fortify the young spirit against the ordeal that was to 
confront her the following day. Only once had Flea 
faltered a request that she be allowed to stay at home; 
but Horace had melted her objections without expelling 
her fear. To Ann’s instructions concerning conduct she 
had listened with a heavy heart. 

Everett Brimbecomb opened the front door as Flea ap- 
proached it. She stopped short before him, and he drew 
in a sharp, quick breath. Flea was uncertain just what 
to do. She knew that he was going to marry Ann, and 
was also aware that he hated her brother and herself. 
Ann, however, had taught her to bow, and she now came 
forward with hesitant grace, and inclined her head slightly. 
The beauty of Flea made Everett regret that his objections 


118 


FROM THE VALLEY 


to the twins had been so strenuous; but he would immedi- 
ately establish a friendship with her that would please 
both Ann and Horace. He vowed that at the same time 
he would get some amusement out of it. 

“ Well ! You’ve blossomed into a girl at last,” he said 
banteringly, “ and a mighty pretty one, too ! I swear I 
shouldn’t have known that you were one of those boys ! ” 

Flea threw her peculiar eyes over him ; but did not speak. 

“ You’re going to school tomorrow, I hear. How do 
you hke that.^^ ” 

Flea shook her head. 

“ I don’t want to go,” she admitted ; “ but my Prince 
says as how I have to.” 

“ Your what.f^ ” 

“ My Prince ! ” 

“Your Prince! Who’s your Prince.'^” demanded 
Brimbecomb. 

“ Him, back in there,” replied Flea, casting her head 
backward in the direction of the library. 

“ You mean Mr. Shellington ” 

“ Yep 1 ” 

Everett burst into a loud laugh. At the sound, Horace 
stepped to his study-door and looked out. His face 
darkened as he discerned Flea standing against the wall 
and Brimbecomb looking down at her. He came for- 
ward and stationed himself at the girl’s side, placing one 
hand upon her shoulder. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” he asked. 

“ Why, little Miss — I’m sure I don’t know the child’s 
name,” cried Everett breaking into merriment again, “ she 
says you’re a — Prince, Horace.” 

Shellington lowered his eyes to Flea, who w'^as gaz- 
ing up at him fearfully. She did not look at Everett; 
but made an uneasy gesture with her hand toward Horace. 
She had never seemed so appealingly adorable, and in- 


OF THE MISSING 


119 


wardlj Everett cursed the stupidity that had allowed so 
many weeks to pass by without his having become Flea’s 
friend. 

There was silence, during which the girl locked and un- 
locked her fingers. Then she relieved it with the frank 
statement : 

‘‘ This man here didn’t seem to know nothin’ about ye ; 
so I told him ye was a Prince.” 

Ann’s voice from the drawing-room caused Everett to 
turn on his heel, leaving Horace alone with Flea. 

For a moment they were both quiet. Flea considered the 
toe of her slipper. A tear dropped to the front of her dress 
as Horace took her hand and led her into the library. 

“ Fledra,” he said, using the new name with loving in- 
flection, “ what are you crying forF ” 

‘‘ I thought you was mad at me,” she shuddered. ‘‘ That 
bright-eyed duffer what I hate laughed when I said ye was 
a Prince. I hate his eyes, I do, and I hate him ! ” 

Shellington did not correct her mistakes in English as 
he had done so often of late. With shaded remonstrance 
in his tone, he said: 

“ Fledra, he is going to marry my sister, and he’s my 
friend.” 

‘‘ He ain’t good enough for Sister Ann,” muttered Flea 
stubbornly. 

“ She loves him, though, and that is enough to make us 
all treat him with respect.” 

Turning the subject abruptly, he continued: 

“ I’m expecting you to work very hard in school, 
Fledra. You will, won’t you.^ ” 

“ Yes,” replied Flea, making sure to pronounce the word 
carefully. 

Horace smiled so tenderly into her eyes that she grew 
frightened at the thumping of her heart and fled pre- 
cipitately. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


F LEDRA CRONK’S school days lengthened slowly 
into weeks. She was making rapid strides in Eng- 
lish, and Miss Shellington’s patience went far to- 
ward keeping her mind concentrated upon her work. At 
first some of the girls at the school were inclined to smile at 
her endeavors; but her sad face and questioning eyes drew 
many of them into firm friends. Especially did she cling 
to Mildred Vandecar, and raised in the golden-haired 
daughter of the governor an idol at whose shrine she wor- 
shiped. 

One Saturday morning in the latter part of March, 
Mildred Vandecar persuaded her mother to allow her to go, 
accompanied by Katherine, to the Shellington home. They 
found Ann reading aloud to the twins. Flukey resting on 
the divan. Mildred was presented to him, and in the hour 
that followed the sick boy became her devoted subject. 

The three young people listened eagerly to the story, 
and after it was finished Ann entered into conversation 
with Katherine. 

Suddenly she heard Flukey exclaim, in answer to some 
question put by Mildred: 

“ My sister and me ain’t got no mother ! ” 

Miss Shellington colored and partly rose; but she had 
no chance to speak, for Mildred was saying : 

“ Oh, dear ! how you must miss her ! Is she dead ? And 
haven’t you any father, either.? ” 

“ Yep,” said Flukey ; ‘‘ but he ain’t no good. He hates 
us, he does, and worse than that, he’s a thief ! ” 

Mildred drew back with a shocked cry. Ann was up 

120 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 121 


instantly; while Fledra got to her feet with effort. She 
remembered how carefully Ann had instructed her never to 
mention Lon Cronk or any of the episodes in their early 
days at Ithaca; but Flukey had never been thus warned. 

‘‘ Mildred, dear,” Ann said anxiously, ‘‘ Floyd and 
Fledra were unfortunate in losing their mother, and more 
unfortunate in having a father who doesn’t care for them 
as your father does for you.” She passed an arm about 
Fledra and continued, “ It would be better if we were not 
i to talk of family troubles any more, Floyd. . . . 

Fledra, won’t you ask Mildred to play something for 
you.? ” 

The rest of Mildred’s stay was so strained that Miss 
I Shellington breathed a sigh of relief when Katherine sug- 
. gested going. For a few seconds neither Ann nor Fledra 
i spoke after the closing of the door. It was the latter who 
finally broke the silence. 

I “ Flukey hadn’t ought to have said anything about 
Pappy Lon ; but he didn’t know — he thought everybody 
knew about us. . . . Are ye going to send us away 

now.? ” 

The girl’s anxiety and worried look caused Ann to re- 
assure her quickly. 

In describing the events of the afternoon to her mother, 
Mildred wept bitterly. When a grave look spread over 
Mrs. Vandecar’s face, Katherine interposed: 

“ Aunty, while those children undoubtedly had bad 
i parents, they will really amount to something. I’m sure.” 

It was not until she was alone with Katherine that Mrs. 
Vandecar opened the subject. 

I “ I’m almost afraid I was incautious to allow a friend- 
ship to spring up between this strange child and Mildred. 

I I wish I could see her.” 

“Ask her here, then. She’s very pretty, very gentle. 


122 


FROM THE VALLEY 


and needs young friends sadly, although the Shellingtons 
are treating the two children beautifully. If they don’t 
grow up to be good, it won’t be Ann’s fault, nor Horace’s.” 

I’ll invite the child to come some afternoon, then.” 
With this decision the subject dropped. 

That evening Ann went out on a charitable mission, 
leaving Fledra to deliver a message to Everett and to 
care for Floyd. The boy was in bed, his thin white hands 
resting wearily at his sides. For sometime he allowed his 
sister to work at her lessons. Then he said impetuously: 

“ Flea, why be these folks always so kind to you and 
me.^ They ain’t never been mad yet, and I’m allers a 
yowlin’ ’cause my bones and my heart hurt me.” 

Flea looked up from her book meditatively. 

“ They’re both good, that’s why.” 

“ It’s ’cause they pray all the time, ain’t it ? ” Floyd 
asked. 

“ I guess so.” 

“ I’d a died those nights if Sister Ann hadn’t prayed 
for me, wouldn’t I, Flea.? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Flea in abstraction. 

After a silence, Floyd spoke again : 

‘‘ Flea, do you like that feller what Sister Ann’s going 
to marry ? ” 

The girl dropped a monosyllabic negative and fell to 
studying. 

“ Why ? ” insisted Floyd. 

Before Flea could reply, a servant appeared at the door, 
saying that Mr. Brimbecomb wanted Miss Shellington. 

Fledra closed her book and went to the drawing-room, 
where she found Everett standing near the grate. His 
brilliant smile made her drop her eyes embarrassedly. She 
overlooked his extended hand, and made no move to come 
forward. The girl had always felt afraid of him. Now 


OF THE MISSING 


123 


his presence in the room increased her vague fears. Why 
she had felt this sudden premonition of evil, she did not 
know, nor did she try to analyze her feelings. Young as 
she was, Fledra recognized in him an enemy, and yet his 
attitude betrayed a personal interest. She had seen him 
many times during the last few weeks; but had managed 
to escape him through the connivance of Miss Shellington. 
Ann had tactfully explained to the girl that Mr. Brimbe- 
comb did not feel the same toward her and Flukey as did 
her brother ; but had added, “ It’s because he does not 
know you both. Dear, as Horace and I do.” 

Once alone with him, she knew only that she wanted to 
give him Ann’s message and return quickly to Floyd. Be- 
fore she could speak, Brimbecomb passed behind her and 
closed the door. 

“ Sister Ann won’t be home for an hour,” said Flea, 
turning sharply. 

Everett smiled again. 

‘‘ Sit down, then,” he said. 

I can’t ; I have to study.” 

Something in the girl’s tones brought a low laugh from 
Everett. He came closer to her. 

“ You’re a deliciously pretty child,” he bantered. 
“ Won’t you take hold of my hands? ” 

Placing her arms behind her. Flea answered: 

“ No, I don’t like ye! ” She backed far from him, her 
eyes burning with anger. 

“ You’re a very frank little maid, as well as pretty,” 
drawled Everett. “ Ever since I first saw you as a girl, 
I’ve wanted to know something about you. Who’s your 
father? ” 

“ None of yer business ! ” snapped Flea. 

“ Frank again,” laughed the lawyer ruefully. “ Now, 
honestly, wouldn’t you like to be friends with me? ” 

“ No ! I said I didn’t like ye, and I don’t 1 I want to 




FROM THE VALLEY 


go now. You can sit here alone until Sister Ann comes.” 

She looked so tantalizingly lovely, so lithely young, as 
she flung the disagreeable words at him, that Brimbecomb 
impulsively made a step toward her. He was unused to 
such treatment and manners. That this girl, sprung from 
some unknown corner, dared to flaunt her dislike in his 
face, made him only the more determined to conquer her. 

“ If I wait until Sister Ann comes,” he said coolly, “ I 
shall not wait alone. I insist that you stay here with 
me ! ” 

“ I have to go back to my brother. So let me go by 
c — please ! ” 

Fledra made an effort to pass Brimbecomb ; but he 
grasped her deliberately in his arms. Drawing her for- 
cibly to him, he exclaimed: 

“I’ve caught my pretty bird! Now I’m going to kiss 


you' 


f 55 


Flea’s mind flashed back to the day when Lem Crabbe 
had tried to kiss her, and the thought came to her mind 
that she could have borne that even better than this. She 
squirmed about until her face was far below his arm, and 
muttered : 

“ If you try to kiss me. I’ll dig a hole in yer mug 1 ” 

Half-mocking at the threat, half-inviting its fulfilment, 
Everett laughed. Then, with all his strength, he forced 
Flea’s angry, crimsoned face up to his and closed his lips 
over her red mouth, kissing her again and again. The 
girl struggled until she was free. In an uncontrollable 
temper she thrust her hand to Everett’s face, and he felt 
her fingernails scrape his cheek. He released her instantly, 
stepping back in a gasp of rage and surprise. 

Pantingly the girl rubbed her lips with her sleeve. 

“ If Sister Ann weren’t a lovin’ ye,” she flashed at him, 
“ I’d tell her how cussed mean ye be ! If ye ever try 
to kiss me again. I’ll tear yer eyes out. Mister ! ” 


OF THE MISSING 


125 


She was gone before he could stop her, and, like a young 
fury bounded into the presence of Flukey. 

“ I know why I hate that feller of Sister Ann’s,” she 
muttered ; ‘‘ ’cause he’s bad — he’s a damn dog ! That’s 
what he is ! ” 

With a startled ejaculation, Floyd half-rose; but Ann’s 
step in the hall sent him back on the pillow gasping. 

Fledra sank down at the table, by effort repressing her 
breath. She heard the door open, and when Miss Shel- 
lington entered her red face was bent low over the gram- 
mar. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


A FEW seconds before, when Miss Shellington had 
entered the house, she had seen Everett’s shadow 
on the drawing-room curtain ; but for the moment 
her habitual concern for Floyd overrode her eagerness to 
be with her lover, and she hurried to the sickroom. As 
was her custom, she took the boy’s hand in hers and ex- 
amined him closely. With her daily observance of him, 
she had learned to detect the slightest change in his ap- 
pearance. Now his flushed cheeks and racing pulse told 
her he was laboring under great excitement. 

‘‘ Floyd,” she exclaimed in dismay, “ you’ve been talk- 
ing too much! Your face is awfully red! . , , Why, 

Fledra, I’ve cautioned you many times — ” 

At the girl’s apparent unconcern, Miss Shellington left 
the reproach unfinished. She perceived the scarlet cheeks 
and flashing eyes peering at her over the open book. 

Is there anything the matter, Fledra ? ” 

The girl let her gaze fall. 

“ You haven’t been quarreling with Floyd.^ ” 

Nope, Sister Ann ; Flukey and me never have words.” 
I should hope not,” Ann replied sincerely ; ‘‘ but, 
Fledra dear, when I speak to you, please look at me.” 
With a shake of the black curls, Fledra lifted her face. 
“ Tell me what is the matter with you,” said Ann. 

A glint of steel shown in the gray eyes. Flea’s lips 
opened to speak, and for one moment Ann’s happiness 
was threatened with destruction. The girl was on the 
point'of telling her about Everett — then Brimbecomb’s 
voice rang out from the reception-room. 

‘‘Ann, dear! Aren’t you ever coming.^” 

126 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 127 


Fledra noticed Miss Shellington’s face change as if by 
magic, and saw a lovelight grow in her eyes. 

In silence, she received Ann’s sorrowful kiss. 

“ Little sister, I really wasn’t scolding you. I was only 
thinking of how careful we have to be of Floyd. I — 
I wish you would be kind to me ! ” 

During the painful constraint that followed, Fledra 
allowed Ann to leave the room; but before she had more 
than closed the door the girl rose and bounded after her. 
Impulsively she grasped Miss Shellington’s arm and thrust 
herself in front. 

“ Sister Ann,” she whispered, “ I lied to ye ! I was mad 
at Floyd, as mad as — ” 

Ann placed her finger on the trembling lips. 

“ Don’t say what you were going to. Dear — and remem- 
ber it is as great a sin to get into such a temper as it is 
to tell a story.” 

“Ye won’t tell anyone that I fibbed, will ye — Flukey 
or yer brother, either? ” 

' Everett’s voice called Ann again, and she replied that 

I she was coming. 

• Softly kissing the girl, she said: 

“ If I loved you less, Fledra dear, I should not be so 
anxious about you. But I’m so fond of you, child! Now, 
then, smile and kiss me ! ” 

Fledra flung her arms about the other. 

I; “ I keep forgettin’. I’ll try not to be bad any more.” 
Flea turned back into the room, as Ann hurried away at 
another call from Everett, and muttered: 

“ If I loved ye less. Sister Ann, I wouldn’t have lied to 

'! ye.” 

Floyd’s eyes questioned her as she passed him. 

I “ Fluke,” said she, coming to a halt, “ I told Sister Ann 
I was mad at you, and I wasn’t. You won’t tell her, will 
ye? ” 


128 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ No,” replied Flukey wonderingly, “ I won’t tell her 
nothin’.” 

Flea said no more in explanation, and sat again at the 
study table. She was still bent over her book when Shel- 
lington opened the door and glanced in. The boy’s eyes 
were closed as if in sleep, and Horace beckoned to Flea. 
She rose languidly and walked to him. 

“ As your brother is sleeping, Fledra,” he murmured, 
“ come into the library and talk to me awhile.” 

There were traces of tears on Fledra’s face when Hor- 
ace ushered her into the study. 

“ Now, little girl, sit down and tell me about your 
lessons. I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t had time 
to show you my interest. . . . You’ve been crying, 

Fledra ! ” 

“ Yes, I got mad, and Sister Ann talked to me.” 

“ Will you tell me why you became angry? ” he queried. 

Flea had not expected this, and had no time to think of 
a reason for her anger. Deliberating a moment, she 
placed her head on her arm. It would be dangerous to 
tell him about Brimbecomb. If the bright-eyed man in the 
drawing-room had only let her go before kissing her — 
if he had only remembered his love for Annl She knew 
Horace was waiting for her to speak; but her mind refused 
absolutely to concoct a reasonable excuse, and she could 
not tell him a deliberate lie, as she had to Ann. 

For what seemed many minutes Horace looked at her. 

“ Fledra,” he said at length, “ am I worthy of your 
confidence? ” 

His question brought her up with a jerk. Would she 
dare tell him? Would he be silent if he knew that Sister 
Ann was being perfidiously used? She was sure he would 
not. 

“ If I tell you something,” she began, ‘‘ you won’t never 
tell anybody? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


129 


“ Never, if you don’t want me to.” 

She leaned forward and looked straight at him. 

“ I just lied to Sister Ann,” she said. 

Horace’s face paled and he grasped the arms of his 
chair. Presently he asked sharply: 

“ Why did you lie to my sister, Fledra.?^ ” 

‘‘ I just did, and you said you wouldn’t tell.” 

“ Was it because you lied to her that you cried ” 

She tossed his question over in her mind. She intended 
to be truthful to him, unless a falsehood were forced from 
her to shield Ann. 

“ I cried because Sister Ann was so good to me.” 

‘‘ Are you going to tell me what caused you to be un- 
truthful.^ ” he asked persistently. 

Fledra shook her head dismally. 

Immeasurable compassion for the primitive, large-eyed 
child flooded his soul, and his next words assumed a more 
tender tone. 

“ Of course, you don’t mean that you are going to keep 
it from me.^ ” 

Her dark head suddenly dropped again, and a smoth- 
ered storm of sobs drew him closer to her. In the silence 
of arrested speech, he reached for her fingers, which were 
twisting nervously in the webby lace on her dress. With 
reluctance Flea permitted herself to be drawn from her 
chair. 

“ Fledra, stand here — stand close to me ! ” said he. 

Obediently she came to his side, hiding her face in one 
bended arm. He could feel the warmth of her bursting 
breaths, and he could have touched the lithe body had he 
put out his hand. And then — and not until then — did 
Horace know that he loved her. Yesterday she had 
seemed only a child ; but at this moment she was trans- 
formed into a woman, and his sudden passion gave him a 
lover’s right to pass his arm about her. In bewilderment 


130 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Elea checked her tears and drew back. He had never be- 
fore caressed her in any way. 

Horace stood up, almost mastered by his new emotion. 
“ Eledra,” he breathed, “ Eledra, can’t you trust me.? 
Dear child, I love you so ! ” 

Stunned by his words, Eledra stared at him. His voice 
had vibrated with something she had never heard before. 
His eyes were brilliant and pleading. 

“ Eledra, can’t you — can’t you love me.? ” 

As if by strong cords, her tongue was tied. 

Listen to me ! ” pursued Horace. “ I know now I 
loved you that first night I saw you — that night when 
you came into the room with Ann’s — ” 

He stopped at the name of his sister — he had forgotten 
for the moment Elea’s confession of the falsehood to her. 
Then the seeming injustice done Ann turned his mind 
to the probing he had begun at first for the cause of Elea’s 
grief. Intermingled with this was a whirl of thought as 
to the things that the girl had accomplished. Her entire 
submission to Ann and himself, her devotion to Eloyd, her 
desire to master the difficult problems of her new life, 
all persuaded him that for his happiness he must know 
the cause of her agitation. Spontaneously he pressed his 
open hands to her cheeks. 

‘‘Eledra, Eledra! Can I believe you.?” 

The girl lowered her head and nodded emphatically. 

“ Do you — do you love anyone else — I mean any man.? ” 
His rapidly indrawn breath came forth with almost an 
ejaculation. Elea’s eyes sought his for part of a minute. 
Then slowly she shook her head, a shadow of a smile 
broadening her lips. With effort she lifted her arms and ‘ 
whispered : 

“ I don’t love anyone else — that is, no man ! Be ye 
sure that ye love me.? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


131 


Like an impetuous boy he gathered her up, caressing 
her hair, her eyes, her lips. With sudden passion he mur- 
mured : 

‘‘ Fledra ! Fledra dear ! ” 

“ I do love ye ! ” she whispered. “ Oh, I do love ye every 
bit of the day, and every bit of the night, jest like I did 
when you came to the settlement and I saw ye on the 
shore ! ” 

Hitherto she had not told him that she had seen him 
in Ithaca, and he did not understand her allusion to a 
former meeting. To his astonished look, she replied by a 
question. 

“ Don’t ye remember one day you came to the settle- 
ment and asked the way to Glenwood.^^” 

Horace conjured up a vision of a child of whom he had 
asked his road, and remembered, in a flashing glance at the 
girl in his arms, that he had inwardly commented upon 
the sad young face. He had noted, too, the unusual shade 
in her eyes, and now he wondered vaguely that he had 
not loved her then. 

I remember — of course I remember ! Oh, I want you 
to say again that you love me, little dearest, that you 
love me very much ! ” His lips roved in sweet freedom 
over her face as he continued, “ You’re so young, so very 
young, to have a sweetheart; but if you could only begin 
to love me — in a few years we could be married, couldn’t 
we? ” 

Flea’s body grew tense with tenderness. She had never 
heard such beautiful words; they meant that her Prince 
loved her as Ann loved Everett, as good men loved their 
wives and good wives loved their husbands. Instead of 
answering, she lifted a pale face intensifled by womanly 
passion. 

‘‘ Will ye kiss me? ” she breathed. ‘‘ Kiss me again on 


132 


FROM THE VALLEY 


my hair, and on my eyes, and on my lips, because — be- 
cause I love ye so ! ” 

His strong avowal had opened a deep spring in her 
heart which overflowed in tears. The taut arms pressed 
him tightly. The words were sobbed out from a tightened 
young throat. The very passion in her, that abandon- 
ment which comes from the untutored, stirred all that was 
primeval in him, all the desperate longing in a soul newly 
born. His mouth covered hers again and again ; it sought 
her closed white lids, her rounded throat, and again lin- 
gered upon her lips. After a few moments he sat down 
and drew her into his arms. 

“ Little love, my heart has never beaten for another 
woman — only for you, always for you! Fledra, open 
your eyes quick ! ” 

The brown-flecked eyes flashed into his. Horace bent 
his head low and searched them silently for some seconds. 

“ I must be sure. Dear, that you love me. Are you 
very sure ? ” 

“Yes, yes! That’s why I felt so bad tonight, when 
I told ye about lying to Sister Ann.” There was en- 
treaty in her glance, and her flgure trembled in his arms. 
Horace started slightly. He had again forgotten her 
admission. 

“ But you will tell me all about it now, won’t you, 
Fledra? Then we can tell Ann and your brother about 
our love.” 

Flea stood up ; but Horace still kept his arm about her. 
Her thoughts flew to Everett. How unfaithful he had 
been ! Could she confide in Horace, now that she was 
absolutely his? No; for he would punish Everett even 
the more to the detriment of Ann. The thought set her 
teeth hard. Had she been Ann, and Horace been Everett, 
had the man she loved been unfaithful to the point of 
stealing kisses from another — She took a long breath. 


OF THE MISSING 


133 


But she was not Sister Ann, neither was Horace, Everett. 
In a twinkling everything that Horace had been to her 
since the first day in Ithaca flooded her heart with hap- 
piness. Her dreamy imagination, which had enshrined 
him king of her life, worked with a new desire that nothing 
should interfere with the love that he had showered upon 
her. He had said, “ Do you love me. Dearest ” 

The anxious question had thrilled her vibrant being to 
silence, had stilled her eager tongue with the magnitude of 
its passion. Horace was pleading with his eyes, imploring 
her to answer him. Suddenly he burst out: 

“ Y ou will tell me, Dear, why you were untruthful to my 
sister ” 

Fledra pondered for a moment. 

“ Something happened,” she began, “ and Sister Ann 
came in — I was mad — ” 

‘‘ Were you angry at what happened.^ ” 

« Yes.” 

Horace led her on. 

“ And did Floyd know what had happened? ” 

No.” 

“ And then ? ” he demanded almost sharply. 

“ And then Sister Ann asked me what was the matter, 
and I lied, and said I was mad at Floyd.” 

Horace still held her. This sweet possession and desire 
of her filled him with serious decision. He deliberated an 
instant on her confession. 

‘‘Now you’ve told me that much,” said he, “I want 
to know what happened.” 

“ I can’t tell ye,” she said slowly, “ I can’t, and ye said 
that ye wouldn’t tell anybody about it.” 

Horace’s arms loosened. Surely she could have no 
good reason for keeping anything from him! Suddenly 
he grasped her tightly to him and kissed her again and 
again. 


134 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘Of course you’ll tell me, of course you will! Tell 
me all about it. I won’t have this thing between us I I 
can’t, I can’t ! I love you I ” 

It maddened her to hear him chide her thus, filled as she 
was with all the primeval qualities of the native woman 
to feel the strength of her man. How his pleading touched 
her, how gravely his dear face expressed an anxiety that 
she herself was unable to banish! Even should he send 
her from him, she could not be false to Ann. To this de- 
cision the strong, untutored mind clung, and again she 
refused him. 

“ No, I’m not goin’ to tell you. Mebbe some day I 
will ; but not now.” 

She heard him take a deep breath which tore savagely at 
all the best within her. It wrestled with her affection for 
Miss Shellington, for her duty to Floyd’s friend. Not 
daring to glance up, she still stood in silence. Horace’s 
voice shocked her with the sternness of it. 

“ You’ve got to tell me ! I command you ! Fledra, you 
must ! ” Then, tilting her chin upward, he continued re- 
proachfully, “ If you’re going to keep vital things from 
me, you can’t be my wife! ” 

The resistance against telling him grew faint in her 
heart in its battle for desirable things. 

“Ye mean,” she asked, with quick in taking of breath, 
“ that I can’t be your woman if I don’t tell you ^ ” 

A flush crawled to his forehead as the rich young voice 
flung the question at him. She was so maddeningly beauti- 
ful, so young and clinging ! But she must bend to his will 
in a thing like this! In his desire to set her right, he 
answered somewhat harshly. 

“You must tell me; of course, you must!” 

Fledra threw him a glance, pleading for leniency. She 
had expected him to importune, to scold, but in the end 


OF THE MISSING 


135 


to trust. Suddenly, in the girl’s imagination, Ann’s gen- 
tle face bending over Floyd rose in its loving kindness. 

“ Then — then,” she stammered, “ if you won’t have me, 
unless I tell you — then I’ll go now — please ! ” 

She left him with pathetic dignity, and her last glance 
showed his eyes, too, filled with a strange pain. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


T he next week held unutterable pain for Flea, each 
twenty-four hours deepening her unhappiness more 
and more. She made no effort to talk with Shel- 
lington, nor did she mention her sorrow to Ann. It did 
not seem necessary to her that she should again speak 
to Horace of going away. When she had last suggested 
it, he had said that nothing she could do would alter his 
decision about his home being hers until Floyd should be 
well. Nevertheless, an innate pride surged constantly 
within her. Any deprivation would be more welcome than 
the studied toleration that, she thought, she encountered 
in Horace. 

One morning she stood looking questioningly down at 
her brother. 

‘‘ How near well are ye. Fluke ? ” 

“ Ain’t never goin’ to get well ! ” he replied, shivering. 
“ ’Tain’t easy to get pains out of a feller’s bones when they 
once get in.” 

“ If you do get well soon, I think we’d better go away.” 
‘‘ Why ? ” demanded Flukey. 

Because we wasn’t asked to stay only till you got 
well.” 

‘‘ Don’t ye believe it. Flea ! Ye wasn’t here last night. 
Brother Horace and Sister Ann thought I was to sleep, 
and I wasn’t.” 

“ What did they say.? ” broke in the girl, with whiten- 
ing face. 

“ Sister Ann told Mr. Shellington about yer work at 
school, and he said — as how — ” 

136 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 137 


Floyd waited a moment before continuing, and Flea 
crept closer to the bed. She was crying softly as she knelt 
down and bent her face over her brother. The boy passed 
his hands through the black curls. 

“ What’s the matter, Flea ? ” 

“ I want to know what my Prince said to Sister Ann.” 

“ Be ye crying about him? ” 

« Yes ! ” 

“Ye love him, I bet! ” 

Flea buried her face deeper into the soft counterpane; 
but she managed to make an affirmative gesture with her 
head. 

Floyd was silent, and sometime passed before he heard 
the girl’s smothered voice: 

“ And I’m goin’ to love him always ^ — ■ even after we go 
away ! ” 

“We ain’t goin’ away,” said Floyd. 

“Who said so?” 

“ Mr. Shellington.” 

“ When.?,” 

“ Last night.” 

Fledra lifted her head and grasped the boy’s thin hands 
in hers. 

“ You’re sure it was last night. Fluke? ” 

“ Yep, I be sure. I was lay in’ here with my face to 
the wall. When Sister Ann comes in nights, if I don’t 
say anything, she thinks I be asleep, and she kisses me, 
and I like her to do that. Last night, when she’d done 
kissing me, Mr. Shellington came in, and then they talked 
about us.” 

“ And he didn’t say we was to go away ? ” 

“ No.” 

Fledra rose in sudden determination, and in her ex- 
citement spoke with swift reversion to the ancient manner. 

“ Flukey, ye be the best da ” 


138 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Flukey thrust up a reproving finger which stopped the 
oath. 

“ Flea ! ” he cautioned. 

“ I were only goin’ to say, Flukey,” said Flea humbly, 
“ that ye be the best kid in all the world. Don’t tell any- 
body what I said about my Prince.” 

She went out quickly. 

With her hand upon her heart. Flea halted before the 
library. She knew that Horace was there; for she could 
hear the rustling of papers. At her timid knock, he bade 
her enter. Her tongue clove so closely to the roof of her 
mouth that for a minute she could not speak. She held 
out her fingers, and Horace took them in his. His face 
whitened at her touch ; but he gazed steadily at her. 

“ You’ve — you’ve something to say to me, Fledra — 
sweetheart ? ” 

The hope in his voice rang out clearly. Fledra nodded. 

« What? ” 

He was determined she should explain away the black 
thing that had arisen between them. 

“ I didn’t come to tell ye about what happened,” said 
she ; ‘‘ but to say that, if ye don’t smile and don’t touch 
me sometimes. I’ll die — I know I will ! ” Her tones were 
disjointed with emotion, and she felt the hands holding 
hers tighten. 

‘‘ I can’t smile when I’m unhappy, Fledra. I can’t ! 
I can’t ! This past week has been almost unbearable.” 

“ It’s been that way with me, too,” said Flea simply. 

“ Then why don’t you make us both happy by being 
honest with me? If you didn’t care for me, I should have 
no right to force your confidence ; but you really do, don’t 
you? ” 

“ Yes ; but I’m never goin’ to marry ye, because mebbe 
I can’t never tell ye. I think ye might trust me. It’s 


OF THE MISSING 


139 


easy when je love anyone. I say, ye couldn’t marry me 
without, could ye? ” She seemed to suddenly grow old 
in her sagacious argument. Horace shook his head 
sadly. 

‘‘ We’d never be happy, if I should,” said he, ‘‘ because 
F — because I couldn’t trust you.” 

“ Oh, I want ye to trust me ! ” she wept. I want ye to ! 
Won’t you once more? Please do! Won’t ye forget that 
anything ever happened — won’t ye ? ” 

For a moment her supplication almost unnerved him; 
but he thought of their future, of the necessity of having 
unlimited faith and honor between them, and again slowly 
shook his head. 

Suddenly the twisting hands worked themselves loose 
from his, and in another instant her feverish arms tightly 
encircled his neck. By the weight of Flea’s body, Horace 
Shellington knew that her feet were no longer on the floor, 
each muscle in the rigid girl having so well done its part 
that she hung straight-limbed against him. Close to his 
face drew hers, and for a space of time, the length of 
which he could never afterward accurately meakire, he 
forgot everything but the maddening expression in her 
face. Her eyelids were closed, and her breath came hot 
upon his lips. 

‘‘ I want ye to kiss me like ye did that night — kiss me 
^ — -please — please — ” In her low voice was illimitable 
strength and passion. 

Like burning rivers, his blood was driven through his 
veins. He flung out his arms and crushed her to him. 
Just then his lips found hers. 

“ Dear God I How I — how I love you ! ” he breathed. 

Fledra’s arms relaxed and slipped from his shoulders. 

‘‘ Then forget about what happened 1 ” she panted. 

All the bitter apprehensions of the last week swept over 
him at her words. His love battled with him, and he 


140 


FROM THE VALLEY 


wavered. How gladly would he have dispelled every doubt 
and listened to her pleading! 

“ But I want you to tell me, Fledra.” 

Flea backed slowly from him. 

“ I can’t. ... I can’t. ... I can’t tell any- 
body ! ” 

The man ran his fingers across his forehead in bewilder- 
ment. In his bitter disappointment he turned away. 

“ When you come to me,” his voice broke into huski- 
ness, “ when you tell me what happened that night before 
you saw my sister, I shall — I shall love you — forever ! ” 

Then came a single moment of critical silence; but it 
needed only the thought of Ann for the girl to toss aside 
his plea and turn upon her heel. 

‘‘ I don’t want Sister Ann to know that I love ye,” she 
said sulkily. “Ye won’t tell her.?” 

“ No, no, of course not — not yet! ” He dropped into 
his chair, his head falling forward in his hands. “ I 
wouldn’t have believed,” he said from between his fingers, 
“ that my love for you ^ — ” 

Flea stopped him with an interruption : 

“ Are ye trying to stop lovin’ me .? ” 

Horace shook his shoulders, lifting swift eyes to hers. 
He noted her expression irrevocable in its decision of 
silence. She was extraordinarily lovely, and he grew 
suddenly angry that he had not the power to change her, 
to draw from her unresistingly the story she had locked 
from his perusal. 

“ Don’t be foolish, Fledra ! ” he said quite harshly. “ A 
man can’t love and unlove at will. I feel as if I should 
never know another happy moment ! ” 

For several days Ann watched her brother in dismay. 
He had grown taciturn and gloomy. The boyish energy 
had left him. She ventured to speak to Everett about it. 


OF THE MISSING 


141 


He doesn’t seem like the same boy at all,” she said 
sadly, after explaining. I can’t imagine what has caused 
the change in him.” 

Everett remembered Shellington’s face as it had bent 
over Fledra, and smiled slightly. 

‘‘ Have you ever thought lately that he might be in 
iove.f* ” 

‘‘ In love! ” gasped Ann. “ No, I know that he isn’t; 
for it was only at the time of the Dryden Fair that he told 
me he cared for no one.” 

“ He might have changed since then,” Everett said quiz- 
zically. 

“ But he hasn’t met anyone lately,” argued Ann. “ I 
know it isn’t Katherine; for — for he told me so.” 

“ I know someone he met at the fair.” 

Ann, startled, glanced up. 

“ Who ? Do tell me, Everett 1 Don’t stand there and 
smile so provokingly. If you could only understand how 
I have worried over him ! ” 

Brimbecornb put on a grave face. 

“ Haven’t you a very pretty girl in the house who is 
constantly under his eye.^ ” 

Still Ann did not betray understanding. 

‘‘ Don’t you think,” asked Everett slowly, ‘‘ that he 
might have fallen in love with — this little Fledra.^” 

An angry sparkle gleamed in Ann’s eyes. 

“Don’t be stupid, Everett. Why, she’s only a child. 
It would be awful! Horace has some sense of the fitness 
of things.” 

Everett thought of the evening he himself had suc- 
cumbed to a desire to kiss Flea. 

“No man has that,” he smiled, “ when he is attracted 
toward a pretty woman.” 

“ But she isn’t even grown up.” 

How little one woman understands another! In his 


142 


FROM THE VALLEY 


eyes Fledra had matured; for his masculinity had sought 
and found the natural opposite forces of her sex. These 
thoughts he modified and voiced. 

“Not quite from your standpoint, Ann; but possibly 
from Horace’s.” 

Pale and distressed, Ann got to her feet. 

“ Then ^ — then, of course, she must go,” she said with 
decision. “ I can’t have him unhappy, and — Why, such 
a thing could ^ — never be ! ” 

She could scarcely wait for Everett to depart; but sup- 
pressed her anxiety and delicately turned the subject out 
of deference to Horace. She listened inattentively as 
Brimbecomb explained some new cases that he was soon 
to bring to court, and kissed him when he bade her good- 
night. Then, with beating heart, she sought her brother. 

Unsmilingly, Horace asked her to be seated. His face 
was so stern that she dared not at once speak of the fears 
Brimbecomb had raised in her mind; but at last she said: 

“ Horace, I’ve been thinking since our last talk about 
the children — ” His sharp turn in the desk-chair inter- 
rupted her words; but she paused only a moment before 
going on resolutely. “ Don’t you think that I might put 
Floyd in a good private hospital where he would be taken 
care of, and Fledra — ” 

His face turned ashen. Her fears were strengthened, 
and, although her conscience stung her, she continued, 
“ Fledra’s getting along so well that I would be willing 
to put her in a boarding school.” 

“ Are you tired of them, Ann? ” 

“Oh, no — no, far from that! I love them both; but 
I thought it might be pleasanter for you, if we had our 
home to ourselves again.” 

Horace looked at his sister intently. 

“ Are you keeping something back from me, Ann? ” he 
demanded. 


OF THE MISSING 


143 


“ Scarcely keeping anything from you, Dear ; but I want 
you to be happy and not to — ” Horace rose in agita- 
tion, and quick tears blurred Ann’s sight. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Dearest ” she 
concluded. 

“ No!” 

Reluctantly she left him, troubled and perplexed. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


L em CRABBE had cunningly planned to keep 
Scraggy under his eye and follow her to the hiding 
place of their son. He realized that the lad was 
a man now; but so much the better. He would obtain 
money from him, or he would bring him back to the scow 
and make him a partner in his trade. In spite of his 
wickedness, Lem heid a strong longing for a sight of his 
child. Many times he had meditated upon the days 
Scraggy had lived in the barge, and, although he had no 
remorse for his cruelty to her, he had regretted the death 
of his boy. To be with him, he would have to tolerate 
the presence of Scraggy for awhile. He felt sure that 
Flea had gone from him forever, and the loneliness of his 
home made him shiver as he entered it a few nights after 
his conversation with Scraggy. 

He had been in the boat but a few moments when he 
heard Lon’s whistle and called the squatter in. 

‘‘ I thought we’d make them plans for Tarrytown,” 
Cronk said presently. ‘‘We might as well get to work as 
to be lazin’ about. Don’t ye think so ? ” 

“ Well, I were a thinkin’ of stayin’ here for awhile,” 
stuttered Lem. 

“ What for.? ” 

“ Nothin’ perticular.” 

“Ye know where that rich duffer’s house be what ye 
heard Middy Burnes speak about .? ” 

“ Yep. It ain’t far from the graveyard. I thought as 
how we could crawl in there while we was waitin’ for night.” 
A strange look passed across Lon’s face. 

144s 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 145 


Ye mean to hide in the cemetray? ” he asked. 

‘‘Yep. Be ye afeared? ” 

“ I ain’t got no likin’ for dead folks,” muttered Cronk. 

He added nothing to this statement; but said after a 
moment’s silence: 

“ Scraggy ought to go dead herself some of these days, 
’cause she’s allers a runnin’ about in the storms. I see her 
ag’in tonight a startin’ out for another ja’nt. She had 
her bundle and her cat and was makin’ a bee line for 
Ithaca.” 

Lem glanced up quickly. 

“ I’ve changed my mind, Lon,” he grunted. “ I’ll go to 
Tarrytown any day yer ready.” 

Accordingly, they took a week to prepare their bur- 
glar’s kit, which they had not used for sometime, and ten 
days after the slipping away of Screech Owl, Lon Cronk 
and Lem Crabbe left the squatter settlement and made 
their way to Tarrytown. 

The once happy household of the Shellingtons had 
turned into a gloomy abode. Ann was nonplused at the 
strange behavior of her brother and the unusual reserve of 
Flea. Floyd from his bedroom endeavored to bring the 
home to its former cheerfulness; but, with all Ann’s en- 
ergies and the boy’s tireless tact, the change did not come. 
At length Miss Shellington gave up trying to bring things 
to their usual routine. She spent her day hours in help- 
ing Fledra with her school studies and giving Floyd sim- 
ple lessons at home. Everett came every evening, taking 
Ann from the sickroom. This left Fledra free to study 
quietly beside her brother. 

One Thursday, after dinner, Horace went by invitation 
to Brimbecomb’s home to play billiards. Of late the 
young men had not passed much of their time together ; 
for business and the presence of Fledra and Floyd in his 


146 


FROM THE VALLEY 


house had given Horace less time for recreation. After 
a silent game they sat down to smoke. For many min- 
utes they puffed without speaking. Everett finally opened 
the conversation. 

“ It seems more like old times to be here together 
again.” 

“ Yes, I’ve missed our bouts, Everett.” 

“ You’ve been exasperatingly conservative with your 
time lately!” complained Everett. “A fellow can’t get 
sight of you unless your nose is poked in a book or you’re 
in court ! ” 

Horace laughed. 

“ Really, I’ve been awfully busy since — ” 

“ Since the coming of your wonderful charges ! ” finished 
Brimbecomb. 

Horace scented a Sneer. His ears grew hot with anger. 

“ Ann has done more than I,” he explained ; “ although 
there is nothing I would not do.” 

I can’t understand it at all, old man ! Pardon me if 
I seem dense, but it’s almost an unheard-of thing for a 
fellow in your and Ann’s positions to fill your home with 
« — beggars.” His voice was low, with an inquiring touch 
in it. Having gained no satisfaction from Miss Shelling- 
ton, he was seeking information from Horace. 

“We don’t think of either one of them as beggars,” 
interjected Horace, “ Both Ann and I have grown very 
fond of them.” 

In former days the two young men had been on terms 
of intimacy, Everett presumed now upon that friendship 
by speaking plainly: 

“ Are you going to keep them much longer ? ” he asked. 

Horace allowed his lids to droop slowly, and looked medi- 
tatively at the end of his cigarette without replying. 

“ I have a reason for asking,” Everett added. 

“ And may I ask your reason ? ” 


OI' THE MISSING 


147 


“ Yes, I suppose so. The fact is, I’m rather interested 
in them myself. I thought • — ” 

Horace lifted his eyes, and the man opposite noted that 
they had grown darker, that they sparkled angrily. 
Everett was desirous of satisfying himself whether Horace 
did, or did not, care for the young girl he was sheltering. 

“ They don’t need your interest so far as a home is con- 
cerned,” Horace said at last. 

Everett’s face darkened as he mused: 

“ They’re lowly born, and such people were made for our 
servants, and not our equals. If the women are pretty, 
they might act as playthings.” 

Horace turned his eyes toward the speaker wrathfully. 
He wondered if he had understood correctly what was im- 
plied by the other’s words. 

“ What did you say, Brimbecomb ? ” 

Everett drew his left leg over his right knee deliberately. 

“ I think the girl pretty enough to make a capital toy 
for an hour,” said he. 

Disbelief flooded Shellington’s face. 

“You’re joking! You’re making a jest of a sacred 
thing, Brimbecomb 1 ” 

Everett recalled former principles of the boy Horace, 
and a smile flickered on his lips. 

“ I can’t concede that,” said he. “ I think with a great 
man of whom I read once. Deal honestly with men in 
business, was his maxim, keep a clean record with your 
fellow citizens; but, as far as strange women are con- 
cerned, treat them as you wish. It’s a man’s privilege to 
— to lie to them, in fact.” 

Without looking up, Horace broke in : 

“Ann has an excellent outlook for happiness, hasn’t 
she.? ” 

“We weren’t talking about Ann,” snapped Everett. 
“ I was especially thinking of the girl in your home, who 


148 


FROM THE VALLEY 


belongs leagues beneath where you have placed her. I 
won’t have her there! I think my position is such that I 
can make certain demands on the family of the woman I’m 
going to marry.” 

“ To the devil with your position ! I wouldn’t give 
a damn for it, and I’ll take up your first question, 
Brimbecomb. You asked me how long I intended to keep 
those children. This is my answer! As long as they 
will stay, and longer if I can make them ! ” His voice rang 
vibrant with passion. Don’t let your position interfere 
with what I am doing; for, if you do, Ann, friendship, or 
anything won’t deter me from — ” 

Brimbecomb rose to his feet and faced the other. 

Threats are not in order,” said he. 

His deliberate speech made Horace turn upon him. 

I, too, intend to marry ! ” was his answer. “ I intend 
to marry — Fledra Cronk ! ” 

Brimbecomb ejaculated in anger. 

If you will be a fool,” said he, “ it’s time your friends 
took a hand in your affairs. I think Governor Vandecar 
will have something to say about that ! ” 

“ No more than you have,” warned Horace. “ The 
only regret I have is that Ann has chosen you for her 
husband. I’m wondering what she would say if I re- 
peated tonight’s conversation to her — as to a man lying 
to a woman.” 

“ She wouldn’t believe you,” replied Everett, 

And you would deny that you so believed.^ ” 

‘‘ Yes. I told you it was my right to lie to a woman.” 
“ Then, by God ! you’re a greater dog than I thought 
you! Let me get out of here before I smash your face! ” 
Everett’s haughty countenance flamed red ; but he 
stepped aside, and Horace, shaking with rage, left the 
house. 

“ I think I’ve given him something to think about,” 


OI' THE MISSING 


119 


muttered Everett. “ He won’t be surprised by anything 
I do now, and I’ve protected myself with Ann against him, 
too.” 

It was only when alone with Everett that Ann felt com- 
pletely at her ease. Then she threw aside the shadow 
that many times dismayed her and looked forward to her 
wedding day, which was to come in May. This evening 
she was sitting with her betrothed under the glow of a red 
chandelier. 

“ You know, Ann, I haven’^ given up the idea of finding 
my own family,” said Brimbecomb presently. “ The more 
I work at law, the more I believe I shall find a way to un- 
earth them. I told Mr. and Mrs. Brimbecomb that I in- 
tended to spend part of my next year looking for them. 
Mrs. Brimbecomb said she didn’t know the name under 
which I was bom. I’m convinced that I shall find them.” 

‘‘ I hope you do, Dear.” 

‘‘ You don’t blame me, do you, Ann, for wanting to 
know to whom I’m indebted for life? ” 

“No,” answered Ann slowly; “although it might not 
make you any happier. That is what I most wish for 
you, Dearest — complete happiness.” 

Everett lifted her delicate fingers and kissed them. 

“ I shall have that when you are my wife,” he said 
smoothly. 

Later he asked, “ Did you speak with Horace of the 
matter that worried you, Ann ? ” 

Miss Shellington sighed. 

“Not in a personal way,” she replied; “but I really 
think there is more than either you or I know. Fledra 
never puts herself in Horace’s way any more; in fact, 
they have both changed very much.” 

“ Possibly he has told her that he cares for her, and 
she has ^ — ” 


150 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Ann shifted from him uneasily. “ If Horace loves her, 
and has told her so, she could not help but love him in 
return. She is really growing thin with hard work, poor 
baby!” 

“ Does she love Horace ? ” sounded Everett. 

“ I can’t tell, although I have watched her very closely.” 

A strange grip caught Everett’s heart. He could not 
think of the small, dark girl without a pang of emotion. 
He had made no effort to see Fledra; yet he was constantly 
wishing that chance would throw her in his path. Later, 
he intended in some way to bring about another interview. 
He dared not write her a letter, although he had gone 
so fa^r as to begin one to her, but in disgust at himself 
had torn it up. The fact that Horace was unhappy 
pleased him, now that they had become antagonistic. 

The mystery clinging to Fledra haloed her for Everett 
beyond the point of interest. 

“ Ann,” he said suddenly, ‘‘ you haven’t told me much i 
about those children — I mean of their past lives.” 

“ We know so little,” she replied reservedly. 

“ But more than you have told me. Have they parents | 
living? ” ] 

“ A father, I think,” murmured Ann. ; 

“ And no mother ? ” :\ 

“ No.” I 

“ Do you know where their father is? ” I 

“ He lives near Ithaca, so we’re told.” After a silence H 
she continued, “We want them to forget — to forget, our- J 
selves, all about their former lives. I asked Horace if ij 
he wanted to place them in schools ; but he didn’t want them 
to go away. As long as they are as good as they have ; 
been, they’re welcome to stay. Poor little things, they’re ; 
nothing more than babies, not yet sixteen ! ” 

“ The girl looks older,” commented Everett. ; 

“ That’s because she’s suffered more than most girls 


OF THE MISSING 


151 


do. I’m afraid it’ll be a long tinie before Floyd is com- 
pletely well.” 

The conversation then drifted to that happy spring 
day when they would be married. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


F rom the window of the drawing-room in his home 
Everett threw a glance into Sleepy Hollow and 
listened to the wind weeping its tale of death 
through the barren trees. The tall monuments were as 
spectral giants, while here and there a guarding granite 
figure reared its ghostly proportions. But the weird 
scenery caused no stir of superstition in the lawyer. 

In hesitation, Everett stood for some seconds, the snow 
falling silently about him; for he was still under the mood 
that had come upon him during Ann’s parrying of his 
curiosity concerning the squatter children. As he paused, 
the Great Dane, in the kennel at the back of the house, 
sent out a hoarse bark, followed by a deep growl. So well 
trained was the dog that nothing save an unfamiliar step 
or the sight of a stranger brought forth such demonstra- 
tions. Everett knew this, and walked into the garden, 
spoke softly to the animal, and, noting nothing unusual, 
ran up the back steps. The door opened under his touch, 
and he stepped in. The maids were in the chambers at 
the top of the house, and quietude reigned about him. 
The young master went into the drawing-room, stirred the 
grate fire, and sat down with a book. For many moments 
his eyes did not seek its pages. His meditations took 
shape after shape; until, dreaming, he allowed the book 
to rest on his knees. 

Everett was perfectly satisfied with his success as a 
lawyer. He had proved to others of his profession in the 
surrounding county that he was an orator of no little 

152 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 153 


ability and preeminently able to hold his own in the court- 
room. 

He could not have desired or chosen a better wife than 
!Ann promised to be; but something riotous in his blood 
made him dissatisfied with affairs as they stood now. 
Manlike, he reflected that, if he had been allowed to caress 
Fledra as he had desired, he would have been content to 
have gone on his way. He wondered many times why his 
heart had turned from Ann to another. Something in 
every thought of Fledra Cronk sent his blood tingling 
and set his heart to leaping. His dreams melted into 
pleasurable anticipations, and he tried to imagine the 
windings of his future path. Chance had always been 
kind, and he wondered whether an opportunity to win the 
affections of the small, defiant girl in the Shellington home 
would be given him. A strain in his blood called for her 
absolute subjection — and, subdue her he would; for he 
felt that an invincible passion slept in her tempestuous 
spirit. 

Suddenly, from the direction of the cemetery, an owl 
sent out a mournful cry, and a furious baying from the 
dog behind the house sounded. He rose, walked to the 
window, and surveyed the bleak view through the curtains. 
He again noted the tall trees threshing in the wind, and 
the looming monuments. Still under the spell of pleas- 
ant day-dreams, Everett silently contemplated the gloomy 
aspect. He had forgotten the owl and its harsh cry. 

So deeply was he engrossed in his meditations that he did 
not hear the stealthy turning of the door-handle, and it 
iwas not until a distinct hiss reached his ears that he turned. 
A woman, dripping with water, her gray hair hanging in 
wet strings about a withered face, stole toward him. 
Everett was so taken aback by the sight of her and the 
hissing, cross-eyed cat perched on her shoulder that he 
could not speak. A newly born superstition rose in his 


154 


FROM THE VALLEY 


heart that the woman was a wraith. Yet an indistinct 
memory made her black eyes familiar. He did not move 
from the window, and Screech Owl sank to the floor. 

‘‘Little ’un,” she whispered, “I’ve corned for ye, little 
’un!” 

The sound of her hoarse voice stirred Everett’s senses. 
He gave one step forward, and the woman spoke 
again ; 

“ I telled yer pappy that I’d bring ye ! ” 

Brimbecomb shook his shoulders, his dread deepening. 
What was the witch-like woman saying to him, and why 
was she calling him by the name he now remembered she 
had used before.^ She crept nearer on her knees, her thin 
hands held up as if in prayer, and, with each swaying 
movement of her the cat shifted its position from one 
stooped shoulder to the other. 

Everett found his voice, and asked sharply : 

“ How did you get into the house.? ” 

Scraggy put up her arm, drew the snarling cat un- 
der it, and looked stupidly at the man. She was so close 
that he could see the steam rising from her wet clothes, 
and the hisses of the animal were audible above his own 
heavy breathing. Screech Owl smoothed the cat’s brist- 
ling back. 

“ Pussy ain’t to hiss at my own pretty boy ! ” she whis- 
pered. “ He’s my little ’un — he’s my little ’un ! ” 

A premonition, born of her words, goaded Everett to’!^ 
action. 

“ Get up ! ” he ordered. “ Get up and get out of here 1 
Do you want me to have you arrested.? ” 

Scraggy smiled. 

“ Ye wouldn’t have yer own mother pinched, little ’un. 
I’m yer mammy ! Don’t ye know me .? ” 

He moved threateningly toward her; but a snarl from 
the furious cat stayed him. 


OF THE MISSING 


155 


‘‘ You lie! You crazy fool! Get up, or I’ll kick you 
out of the house ! Get out, I say ! Every word you’ve 
uttered is a lie ! ” 

“ I don’t lie,” cried Scraggy. “Ye be my boy. Ain’t 
ye got a long dig on ye from — from yer neck to yer arm 
— a red cut yer pappy made that night I gived ye to the 
Brimbecomb woman? The place were a bleedin’ and a 
bleedin’ all through your baby dress. Wait! I’ll show 
ye where it is.” She scrambled up and advanced toward 
him. 

Everett malde as if to strike her. 

“ Get back, I say ! I would hate you if you were my 
mother! You can’t fool me with your charlatan tricks! ” 

The woman sank down, whimpering. 

Again Everett sprang forward; but again the cat drove 
him back. 

“ Go — go — now ! ” he muttered. “ I can’t bear the 
sight of you ! ” 

There were tones in his voice that reminded Scraggy of 
Lem, and her heart grew tender as she thought of the 
father waiting for his child. 

“Ye won’t hate yer pappy, if he does hate me. He 
wants ye, little ’un. I’ve come to take ye back to yer 
hum. He won’t hurt ye no more.” 

Everett stared at her wildly. Was the delicious mys- 
tery that had surrounded him for so many years, which 
had occupied his mind hour upon hour, to end in this? 
He would not have it so! 

“ Get up, then,” he said, his lips whitening, “ and tell 
me what you have to say.” 

Scraggy lifted herself up. Her boy wanted to hear 
more about his father, she thought. 

“ I gived ye to the pretty lady with the golden hair 
when yer pappy hurt ye, and I knowed ye again; for the 
Brimbecomb’s name was on the boat that took ye. Yer 


156 


FROM THE VALLEY 


pappy didn’t know ye were a livin’ till a little while ago, 
and he wants ye now.” 

“ Were you married to him, this man you call my 
father.? ” demanded Everett. 

Scraggy shook her head. 

“ But that don’t make ye none the less his’n, an’ ye be 
goin’ with me, ye be ! ” 

Everett no longer hoped that the woman was either 
mistaken or lying. The stamp of truth was on all she 
had said. He knew in his heart that he was in the pres- 
ence of his mother — this ragged human thing with wild, 
dark eyes and straggling hair. And somewhere he had 
a father who was as evil as she looked. For years Everett 
had struggled against the bad in his nature; but at that 
moment he lost all the remembrance of the lessons of his 
youth, of the goodness taught him by his foster father 
and mother. It flashed into his mind how embarrassed 
Mrs. Brimbecomb had been when he had constantly 
brought up the subject of his own family, and how impa- 
tiently Mr. Brimbecomb had waved aside his petitions for 
information. They should never know that he had found 
out the secret of his birth, and he breathed thanks that 
they were not now in Tarrytown. Neither Ann nor Horace 
should ever learn of the stain upon him; but the girl with 
the black curls should make good to him the suffering of 
his new-found knowledge ! She came of a stock like him- 
self, of blood in which there was no good. 

Everett forgot the dripping woman before him as a dark 
thought leaped into his mind. He could now be at ease 
with his conscience! Of a sudden, he felt himself sink 
from the radius of Horace Shellington’s life — down to 
the birth level of the boy and girl next door. It dawned 
upon him, as his mind swept back over his boyhood days, 
that Horace had ever been better than he, with a natural 
abhorrence against evil. 


OF THE MISSING 


157 


When Scraggy again spoke, he turned burning eyes 
upon her. How he hated her, and how he hated the man 
who called himself his father, wherever he might be! He 
shut his teeth with a grit, and, unmindful of the cat, bent 
over Screech Owl. He forced her head so far back that she 
moaned and loosened her hold upon Black Pussy, who 
sprang snarling into the corner. 

‘‘ If you ever repeat that story to anyone, that I’m 
your son. I’ll kill you I Now go ! ” 

Scraggy began to cry weakly, and Black Pussy howled 
as if in sympathy. 

Shut up, and keep that cat quiet ! You’ll draw down 
the servants. Now listen to me! You say you’re my 
mother — but, if you ever breathe it to anyone, or come 
round here again, I shall certainly kill you ! ” 

The thoughts began to scurry wildly in Scraggy’s head. 
Everett’s threat to kill her had not penetrated the de- 
mented brain, and his rough handling had been her only 
fright. She could think of nothing but that Lem was 
waiting for them at the scow. 

She dragged herself away from Everett, and with a 
torn skirt wiped her ghastly face. She dropped the rag 
to grope dazedly for the cat, and whispered: 

“Ye can do anything ye want to with yer ole mammy, 
if ye’ll come back with me to Ithaca ! ” 

“Ithaca, Ithaca!” Everett repeated dazedly. “Was 
that child you spoke of born in Ithaca.^ ” 

“ Yep, on Cayuga Lake.” 

“ Get up, get up, or I’ll — I’ll — ” His voice came 
faintly to Screech Owl, and she moaned. 

The man’s mind went back to his Cornell days when he 
had been considered one of the richest boys in the univer- 
sity. His sudden degradation, the falling of his family 
air-castles, made him double his fists — and with his blow 
Scraggy dropped into a motionless heap. 


158 


FROM THE VALLEY 


His bloodshot eyes took in her prostrate form, guarded 
by the fluffed black cat, and his one thought was to kill 
her — to obliterate her entirely from his life. He stepped 
nearer, and Black Pussy’s ferocious yowl was the only 
remonstrance as he stirred Scraggy roughly with his foot. 

The thought that her boy did not want to go with her 
coursed slowly through the woman’s brain. She knew 
that without him Lem would not receive her. She longed 
for the warmth of the homely scow; she wanted Lem and 
the boy — oh, how she wanted them both ! She half-rose 
and lunged forward. Brimbecomb’s next blow fell upon 
her upturned face, stunning her as she would have made 
a final appeal. The woman fell to the floor unconscious, 
and Everett kicked Black Pussy into the hall. There was 
a snarling scramble, and when he opened the front door 
the cross-eyed cat bounded out into the night. 

Everett returned hastily to the drawing-room after a 
covert search of the hall for disturbers. In the doorway 
he hovered an instant, and then advanced quickly to the 
figure on the floor. Lifting the limp woman, he bore 
her out of the house and down the slushy steps. W^ith 
strength that had come through the madness of his new 
knowledge, he threw the body over into the graveyard 
and bounded after it. Once more then he took Scraggy 
up, and, stumbling frequently in the half-light, carried 
her to the upper end of the cemetery. Here he deposited 
the body in a snow-filled gully by a vault. Ten minutes 
later he was staring at his mirrored reflection in his own 
room, convinced that, if he had not already killed her, 
the woman would be dead from exposure before morning. 
The cat had disappeared, and all traces of the night’s 
visitation had been removed. 

Several hours before, Lem Crabbe and Lon Cronk had 
slunk into Tarrytown. The snow still fell heavily when 


OF THE MISSING 


159 


they made their preparations to enter the home of Horace 
Shellington. About five in the afternoon they had worked 
their way against this sharp north wind to Sleepy Hollow 
Cemetery and had entered it. Until night should fall and 
sleep overtake the city, they planned to remain there 
quietly. Not far from the fence they took up their sta- 
tion in an unused toolhouse, smoking the next hours away 
in silence. 

When ten o’clock neared, Lem stole out; but he came 
back almost immediately, cursing the wild night in super- 
stitious fear. 

“ The wind’s full of shriekin’ devils, Lon,” he said, 
“ and ’tain’t time for us to go out. Be ye afeard to try 
it, old man ? ” 

‘‘Nope,” replied the other; “but I wish we had that 
cuss of a Flukey to open up them doors, or else Eli was 
here. This climbin’ in windows be hard on a big man like 
me and you with yer hook, Lem.” 

Lem grunted. 

“ I’ll soon have a boy what’ll take a hand in things 
with us, Lon,” he said, presently. “ I aia’t sayin’ nothin’ 
jest yet; but when ye see him ye’ll be glad to have him.” 

“ Whose boy be he ? ” demanded Lon. 

“ Ain’t goin’ to tell.” 

Lon ceased questioning, dismissing the subject with 
a suggestion that he himself should reconnoiter the 
I ground. He left Lem, groped his way among the grave- 
stones for several yards, and brought up abruptly at the 
* fence. From here he eyed the Brimbecomb mansion for 
i some minutes; then he cast his glance to the steps of 
I the Shellington home beyond. After a few seconds a 
young man ran down the stairs, and Lon slunk back to 
Lem in the toolhouse. An instant later both men were 
I startled by the cry of an owl. Lem rose uneasily, while 
j Lon stared into the darkness. 


160 


FROM THE VALLEY 


That weren’t a real owl, were it, Lon ? ” Lem mut- 
tered. 

“ Nope,” growled Lon ; “ it sounded more like Scraggy.” 

He looked at the one-armed man with suspicion. 

“ Can’t prove it by me,” said Lem darkly. 

‘‘Do ye know where she ever goes to.^^ ” demanded 
Cronk. 

Lem shook his head in negation. 

Crabbe dared not venture out again alone; for appre- 
hension rose strong within him. He knew that Scraggy 
had left the settlement to find their boy. Had she come^ 
to Tarrytown for him.f^ The two men crouched low, and 
talked no more during some minutes. Finally, Lon, bid- 
ding Lem follow him, lifted his big body, and they left 
the toolhouse. The squatter led the way to the fence. 
They stood there for a time watching in silence. Two 
shadows appeared upon a curtain of the house before them. 
A man was lifting a woman in his arms, and the downward 
fall of her head gave evidence of her unconsciousness. As 
the front door opened, the squatter and the scowman re- 
treated to their quarters. When Everett Brimbecomb 
threw the body of Screech Owl into the cemetery, both 
were peering out. They saw the man carry the figure off 
into the shadows, marking that he returned alone. . 
Neither knew that the other was Scraggy ; but, with a lust 
for mystery and evil, they slipped out with no word. Lon 
made off to view the Shellington home once more, and Lem 
disappeared in the direction from which Everett had come, 
easily following the tracks in the snow. Coming within 
sight of the vault, Lem rounded it fearfully. On the 
ground he saw the woman, and as he looked she rose to 
a sitting position. 

Screech Owl was just recovering her battered senses. 
She was still dazed, and had not heard the scowman’s foot- 
steps, nor did she now hear the mutterings in his throat. 


OF THE MISSING 


161 


F aintlj she called to Black Pussy ; but, receiving no re- 
sponse from the cat, she crawled deeper into the shadows 
of the vault and tried to think. Her fitful whining 
brought Lem from his hiding place. 

Be that you, Owl ? ” he whispered. 

“ Yep. Where be the black cat? ” 

I dunno. Where ye been? And how’d ye get here? ” 
Scraggy leaned back against the marble vault in exhaus- 
tion. 

“ I dunno. Where be I now? ” 

'Lem bent nearer her, shaking her arm roughly. 

‘‘Ye be in Tarrytown. Did ye come here for the 
brat?’’ 

“ What brat be ye talkin’ ’bout, Lem? ” 

“ Our’n, Screechy. Weren’t ye here lookin’ for him? ” 
Through the darkness Lem could not see the crazed 
expression that flashed over Scraggy’s face. She thrust 
her fingers in her hair and shivered. The blow of Ever- 
ett’s fist had banished all memory of the boy from her 
mind; but Lem lived there as vividly as in the olden days. 
“ We ain’t got no boy, Lem,” she said mournfully. 

“ Ye said we had. Screechy, and I know we have. Now, 
get up out of that there snow, or ye’ll freeze.” 

The scowman helped Screech Owl to her feet, and sup- 
ported her back over the graves to the toolhouse. 

“Ye stay here till I come for ye. Scraggy, and don’t 
ye dare go ’way no place. Do ye hear ? ” 

Screech Owl uttered an obedient assent, and Lem left 
her with a threat that he would beat her if she moved from 
the spot. Then he crawled along the Brimbecomb fence, 
and saw Lon leaning against a tree, some distance down 
the road. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 



FTER Everett’s departure, Ann tripped into 


Elojd’s room in a happier state of mind than had 


^ been hers for several days. It had been her habit 
to kneel beside the boy at night and send up a petition 
for his recovery. Now she would thank God for his 
goodness to her, — Everett had come to be more like him- 
self, and Floyd’s welcoming smile sent a thrill of joy 
through her. As Ann entered, Fledra looked up from 
her book. Her pale, beseeching face drew Miss Shelling- 
ton to her. 

Fledra dear, you study too late and too hard. You 
don’t look at all well.” 

‘‘ I keep tellin’ her that same thing. Sister Ann,” said 
Floyd ; ‘‘ but she keeps mutterin’ over them words till I 
know ’em myself.” 

Miss Shellington turned Fledra’s face up to hers, 
smoothing down the dark curls. 

Go to bed, child ; you’re absolutely tired out. Kiss 
me goodnight. Dear.” 

Fledra loitered in the hall until she heard Miss Shelling- 
ton leave Floyd; then she stole forward. 

‘‘ Will you come to my room a little while. Sister Ann? ” 

Without a word, Ann took the girl’s hand ; together they 
entered the blue room. 

Fledra wheeled about upon Miss Shellington, when the 
door had been closed. 

Do you believe all those things you pray about. Sister 
Ann? ” she appealed brokenly. 


162 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 163 


Ann questioned Fledra with a look; the girl made 
clearer her demand by adding: 

Do you believe that Jesus hears you when you ask 
Him something you want very, very bad? ” 

She looked so miserable, so frail and lonely, that Ann 
put her arms about her. 

“ Sit down here with me, Fledra. There ! Put your 
little tired head right here, and I’ll tell you all I can.” 

“ I want to be helped ! ” murmured Fledra. 

‘‘I’ve known that for sometime,” Ann said softly; 
“ and I’m so happy that you’ve come to me ! ” 

“ It’s nothin’ you can do ; but I was thinkin’ that per- 
haps Jesus could do it.” 

Ann pressed the girl closer. 

“ Is it something you can’t tell me ? ” 

Fledra nodded. 

“ And you can’t tell my brother ? ” 

The girl’s nervous start filled Ann with dismay ; for 
now she knew that the trouble rested with Horace. She 
waited for an answer to her question, and at length 
Fledra, crestfallen, blurted out: 

“ I can’t tell anybody but — ” 

“ Jesus? ” whispered Ann. 

“ Yes ; and I don’t know how to tell Him.” 

Ann thought a moment. 

“ Fledra, if you wanted someone to do something for 
you, about which that person knew nothing, wouldn’t you 
have to tell it before it could be granted? ” 

Fledra nodded. 

“ Then, that’s what you are to do tonight. You are 
to kneel down here when I am gone, and you are to feel 
positively sure that God will help, if you ask Him in 
Jesus’ name. Do you think you have faith enough to do 
that? ” 


164 ) 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I don’t know what faith is,” replied Fledra in a whis- 
per. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, Dear. Now, then, don’t you 
remember how my brother and I prayed for Floyd.? ” 

Fledra pressed Ann’s arm. 

“ And don’t you remember. Dear, that almost immedi- 
ately he was helped ? ” 

“ You had a doctor,” said Fledra slowly. 

“ Yes, for a doctor is God’s agent for the good of man- 
kind; but we had faith, too. And in sometliing like this 
— Is your trouble illness ? ” 

“ Only here,” answered Flea, laying her hand upon her 
heart. 

Ann could not force Flea’s confidence; so she said: 

“ Then if it is impossible to confide in Horace, or in 
me, will you pray tonight, fully believing that you will 
be answered.? You must remember how much Jesus loved 
you to come down to suffer and die for you.” 

“ I don’t believe I thought that story was true, Sister 
Ann.” Fledra drew back, and looked up into Ann’s 
shocked face as she spoke, “ I shouldn’t say I believed it | 
if I didn’t, should I?” I 

“ No, Darling; but you must believe — you surely must ! j 
You must promise me that you will pray first for faith, 
then for relief, and tomorrow you will feel better.” 

“ I promise,” answered Fledra. 

For many minutes after Ann had left her, the girl lay 
stretched out upon the bed. Her heart pained her until 
it seemed that she must go directly to Horace and confess 
her secret. 

She got up slowly at last, and, kneeling, began a whis- 
pered petition. It was broken by sobs and falling tears, 
by writhings that tore the tender soul offering it. 

Fledra prayed for Horace, and then stopped. 

After a time she rose, having done all a girl could do 


OF THE MISSING 


165 


for those she loved, and, undressing, slowly crawled into 
bed. Through the darkness as she lay looking upward 
she tried to imagine what kind of a being God was, won- 
il dering if He were kindly visaged, or if, when His earthly 
[; children sinned. He looked as Horace had looked when 
f she confessed the lie told to Ann. In her Imagination, 
: she framed the Savior of the world like unto the man 
she loved when he smiled upon her, and then she believed, 

! and believed mightily. In likening Jesus to Horace — in 
! bringing the Savior nearer through the lineaments of her 
1 loved one — she gathered out of her unbelief a great be- 
i lief that He could, and would, smooth away all the troubles 
j that had arisen in her life. 

That night she turned and tossed for several hours, 

! praying and weeping, weeping and praying, until from 
sheer fatigue she lay perfectly quiet. Suddenly she sat 
up and listened. The stupor of slumber dulled her hear- 
ing, and she struggled to catch again the sound that had 
awakened her. From somewhere across the hall she heard 
a faint click, click, which sounded as though some me- 
chanic’s tool were being used. 

Fledra slipped from the bed and opened the door 
stealthily. She crept along the hall in her bare feet, ter- 
rified by the muffled sound, and stopped before the velvet 
curtains that were drawn closely across the dining-room 
doorway. Someone was tampering with the silver chest. 

For a moment terror almost forced Fledra back to her 
room without investigating ; but the thought that somebody 
was stealing Ann’s precious family plate caused her to 
slip her fingers between the curtains and peep in. 

The lock of the steel safe was lighted by the rays of a 
dark-lantern, and Fledra could see two shadowy figures 
on the floor before it. One held the light, while the other 
turned a small hammer machine containing a slender drill. 


166 


FROM THE VALLEY 


The girl did not have the courage to scream a warning to 
Horace and the servants, and before she could move of 
a sudden one of the men whispered : 

“ The damn thing is harder’n hell, Lem. I guess I’ll 
take a crack at this here hinge.” 

The name awoke the senses of the trembling girl, and 
instantly she knew the man who had spoken to be Lon 
Cronk. A chill gathered round her heart and froze 
the very marrow in her bones. She dropped the curtain 
and fled back to her room. Standing against the door, 
she pressed her hands over her face to stifle the loud 
breathing. Lem and Lon were robbing the house! She 
would be forced then to let thieves have the contents of the 
safe; for, if Pappy Lon knew that she and Flukey were 
housed there, he would take them away. But, if he made 
off with the plate, no one would ever know who had done 
it, and her sick brother would still be safe in Ann’s care. 

“ I won’t go to ’em. I won’t 1 I won’t 1 They can 
take the whole thing for all of me ! ” 

She turned sharply as though she had heard a voice 
that had made answer to her. With her faculties be- 
numbed by the terror of the men in the dining-room, and 
yet remembering that her grief had been subdued, she 
turned her face upward, and fancied she saw the Christ- 
man, so like Horace, descending into the room. But the 
face, instead of smiling at her, looked melancholy and 
sad. 

It was the dawn of a lasting belief in the Son of God, 
her first real vision of Him. She gazed steadily at the 
beautiful apparition, and then said haltingly: 

“ I’m goin’ back to stop ’em, and if Pappy Lon takes 
me back to the squatter settlement then help me if ye can, 
dear Jesus!” 

The struggle was over, and with rigid desperation 
Fledra again opened the door and stepped into the hall. 


OF THE MISSING 


167 


Gliding swiftly along to the entrance of the dining-room, 
she flung aside the curtains and appeared like a shade 
before Lem and Lon. 

The squatter saw her first; but in the semidarkness did 
not recognize her. He lifted his arm, and a flash of steel 
sent her trembling backward. 

“ Don’t open yer mug. Kid, or I’ll shoot yer head off ! ” 

Then he recognized her, and stepped back to Lem’s 
side. 

‘‘ It’s Flea, it’s Flea Cronk ! ” he gasped. 

The girl advanced into the room. 

“ What do you want here. Pappy Lon ? Did you come 
to steal? ” 

She saw Lem grimacing at her through the rays of the 
lantern. The scowman looked so evil, so awful, as he 
grinningly raised his steel hook, that her faith very nearly 
fled. Crabbe’s heavy face was working with violent emo- 
tion. His full neck moved with horrid convulsions, while 
a discord of low noises came from his throat. The girl, 
clad in her white nightgown, under which he could trace 
the slender body, filled him again with passionate longing. 

By God ! it’s little Flea ! ” he exclaimed at last. 

Yep,” threw back Lon. We found somethin’ we 
didn’t expect — eh, Lem ? ” 

‘‘ Did you come to steal? ” Fledra demanded again, this 
time looking at the canalman. 

‘‘ Yep ; but we didn’t know that you was here. Flea.” 

Then you won’t take anything — now, will you ? ” 

‘‘ We don’t go till you come with us. Flea ! ” Lon 
moved nearer her as he spoke. “Ye be my brat, and 
ye’ll come home with yer pappy ! ” 

Fledra choked for breath. 

“I can’t go with you tonight,” she replied, bending 
over in supplication. “ Flukey’s sick here, and I have to 
stay.” 


168 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Sick ! Sick, ye say ? ” Cronk exclaimed. 

‘‘ Yes, he’s been in bed ever since we left home, and he 
can’t walk, and I won’t go without him.” 

“ I’ll take ye both,” said Lon ferociously. “ I’ll come 
after ye, and I’ll kill the man what keeps ye away from 
me ! I’m a thinkin’ a man can have his own brats ! ” 

Fledra did not set up an argument upon this point. 
She wanted to get the men out of the house, so that 
she might think out a plan to save her brother and her- 
self. 

“ Ye’ll have to let Flukey stay until he gets well, and . 
then mebbe we’ll come back.” i 

“ There ain’t no mebbe about it,” growled Lon. Ye’ll f 
come when I say it, and Lem ain’t through with ye yet, ^ 
nuther! Be ye, Lem.?” ;< 

Never, since the children had left his hut, had Lon felt < 
such a desire to torture them. The dead woman seemed j 
to call out to him for revenge. The wish for the Shelling- J 
ton baubles and the money he might find was nothing V 
compared to the delight he would feel in dragging the twins ■ 
back to Ithaca. Granny Cronk was there no longer, and " 
everything would go his way I He put out his hand and t 
touched Crabbe. ; 

“We ain’t goin’ to steal nothin’ in this house, Lem,” 
he said sullenly ; “ but I’ll come tomorry and take the 
kids. Then we be done with this town. Ye’ll get yer 
brother ready by tomorry momin’. Ye hear. Flea.? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Flea dully. 

“ If Flukey be too sick to walk, he can ride. I’ve got 
the money, and all I want be you two brats, and, if ye 
don’t come when I tell ye to, then it’ll be worse for them 
what’s harborin’ ye. And don’t ye so much as breathe 
to the man what owns this house that we was here tonight 
{ — or — I’U kill Flukey when I get him back to the 
shanty ! ” 


OF THE MISSING 


169 


His glance took in the beautiful room, and, unable to 
suppress a smile, he taunted: 

“ I’m a thinkin’ ye’ll see a difference ’tween the hut and 
this place ^ — eh. Flea ? ” 

And between this and the scow,” chuckled Lem. 

Yep, ’tween this an’ the scow,” repeated Lon. 
‘‘ Come on, Lem. We’ll go now, an’ tomorry we’ll come 
for ye. Flea. No man ain’t no right to keep another man’s 
kids.” 

Fledra’s past experiences with her squatter father were 
still so vivid in her mind that she made no further appeal 
to him; for she feared to suffer again the humiliation of a 
blow before Lem. She stood near the table, shivering, her 
teeth chattering, and her body swaying with fright and 
cold. To whom did she dare turn? Not to Ann or to 
Horace; for Lon had forbidden it. To tell Flukey would 
only make him very ill again. Lon was advancing toward 
her as these thoughts raced through her mind. She drew 
back when he thrust out one of his homy hands. 

“ I ain’t a goin’ to hit ye. Flea ; but I’m goin’ to make 
ye know that I ain’t goin’ to have no foolin’, and that ye 
belong to me, and so does Flukey, and that, when I come 
for ye, ye’re to have yer duds ready.” 

Lem neared the open window, and Lon turned to follow 
him. 

For fully three minutes after they had gone, the girl 
stood watching the black hole through which they had dis- 
appeared, where now the snow came fluttering in. Then 
she crept forward and lowered the window noiselessly. 
With swift footsteps she ran back through the hall and 
into the bedroom. After turning on the light, she drew 
on a dressing-gown and slipped her feet into a pair of 
red slippers. 

Somewhere from the story above came the sounjd of foot- 


170 


FROM THE VALLEY 


falls, and then the creaking of stairs. The girl stood 
holding her hand over her beating heart. A servant, or 
possibly Ann, had heard the noises and was coming down. 
Suddenly into her mind came the prayer Floyd loved. 

“ Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child.” 
She said the words over several times; but had ceased 
whispering when a low knock came upon, her door. She 
opened it, and saw Horace standing in his dressing- 
gown and slippers. For a moment she looked at him with 
almost unseeing eyes, and her lips moved tremulously, as if 
she would speak and could not. Horace, noticing her 
agitation, spoke first. 

‘‘ Fledra, I thought I heard you. I looked down and 
saw a light shining from your window. Is anything the 
matter ” 

Fledra could not find her voice to reply. She had not 
expected him, and, locking her fingers tightly together, , 
she stood wide-lidded and trembling. i 

Were you speaking to someone.?” asked Horace. 

“ Yes, I was. I was speaking to Jesus just before you } 
came. I was asking Him to help me.” ^ 

The man looked at the red gown hanging over her white f 
nightrobe, the tossed black curls, and the pale, sensitive 5 
face before he said: i 

‘‘ Fledra, whatever is the matter with you.? Surely, | 
there is something I can do.” ‘ | 

“ Sister Ann said I would be happier, and we all would, i 
if I asked Jesus; and I was askin’ Him jest now.” j 

Horace eyed her dubiously. j 

‘‘ It is right to ask Him to help you, of course ; but, j 
child, it isn’t right for you to act toward me as you do.” 

Fledra was so desirous of his love and confidence that i 
she made as if to speak. She took two steps forward, then 
hesitated. Remembering Ann and the care she had given 


OF THE MISSING 


171 


Floyd, her hand fell convulsively on the door, and she 
tried to close it. She dared not tell him of Lon’s mid- 
night visit to the home, and wondered if he would give her 
up to her squatter father, and let Flukey be taken back 
to the settlement. 

‘‘ I told ye the truth when I said I was prayin’,” she 
said; but I was thinkin’, too, if it was right for a father 
to have his own children, if he was to ask for ’em.” 

Horace, not understanding her enigmatical words, re- 
garded her gravely, 

“ What a queer girl you are, anyway, Fledra ! ” he 
exclaimed. He spoke almost irritably. He felt like 
grasping her up and shaking her as one might an ob- 
streperous child. 

His moody silence made Fledra repeat her words. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Horace an- 
swered; ‘‘but, I suppose, if a father’s children were being 
kept from him, he could take them if he wished. Fledra, 
look at me ! ” 

She raised her gaze slowly, her somber eyes smiting the 
watching man as might a blow. Her beseeching expres- 
sion arrested the bitter speech that rose to his lips. As 
the memory of her hard work gripped him, he bent for- 
ward and took her slim, cold hand in his. 

“ Fledra, I want you to pay attention to what I am 
going to say. I feel sure that you want to be a good 
girl. If I were not, I could not bear it. Even if you 
don’t trust me, I’m going to help you all I can, anyway.” 

“ And pray,” gasped Fledra, “ pray. Brother Horace, 
that I can be just what you want me to be, and that I can 
stay with Floyd in your house ! ” 

The girl closed the door quickly in his face, and Shel- 
lington moved slowly away, racking his brain for some 
solution of the problem. 


m FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


With their minds in a perturbed state, Lem and Lon 
passed silently back into the cemetery. The shock of the 
girl’s appearance had awed them both. They were near- 
ing the toolhouse before Scraggy came into Lem’s mind. 

The whole situation was changed, now that Flea was 
coming to him. It was the same to him whether she 
wanted to come or not; nor did it matter that he had 
promised Screech Owl that she should be in the scow. He 
still wanted his boy to help him with his work ; but Scraggy 
was a person wholly out of his life. 

The two men halted in front of the shed. 

“ There be a woman in there,” said Lem in a low voice. 

‘‘ What woman ? ” asked Lon. 

‘‘ Scraggy.” 

“Scraggy! How’d she come in here.?” 

“ I took her in,” said Lem. “ She were the woman 
what that guy throwed over the fence.” 

Lon pushed his companion aside and pressed through 
the small doorway. He cast the light of the lantern 
about; but no Screech Owl was in sight. 

“ If Scraggy was over here, Lem,” he said doubtfully, 
“ then she’s gone. We’d better scoot and get a place 
to stay all night.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


W HEN Fledra entered the breakfast room it was 
evident to both Ann and Horace that she had 
had no sleep. Dark rings had settled under 
her eyes. The girl had decided that Lon would make 
good his threat against the person who should try to 
keep his children from him, and, if she went to school, Lem 
and her father might come when she was gone. As they 
rose from the table, she said sullenly : 

“ I’m not goin’ to school any more. I don’t like that 
place. I want to stay at home.” 

“Are you ill, Dear.^ ” asked Ann, coming forward. 
“No, I’m not sick; but I can’t go to school.” 

Horace’s brow darkened. 

“ That’s hardly the way to speak to my sister, Fledra,” 
he chided gently. 

Ann glanced at him in appeal. Fledra was standing 
before them, and her eyes dropped under his words. 

“ If I asked you to let me stay home,” she said in a 
low tone, “you’d both say I couldn’t; llo I just had to 
say that I won’t go.” 

Fledra knew no other way to stand guard over the 
houseful of loved ones. If Lon were to come while she 
was gone, he might take her brother. If she told Horace 
that thieves had entered his home, and if she named them, 
that would draw fatal consequences down on Floyd. She 
could only hold her peace and let matters take their course. 
At any rate, she did not intend to go to school. Now she 
cast a quick glance at Ann; but kept her eyes studiously 

173 


174 


PROM THE VALLEY 


from Horace. Noting Miss Shellington’s entreating face, 
Pledra flung out her hands. 

“ I didn’t want to be mean,” she said quickly ; “ but 
I want you to let me stay home today. Can I.^ Please, 
can I.^ ” 

“ There ! I knew that you’d apologize to my sister,” 
Horace said, smiling. 

At this, Pledra turned upon him. He had never felt 
a pair of eyes affect him as did hers. How winsomely 
sweet she was ! It came over him in a flash that he had 
not dealt quite justly with her; so he smiled again and held 
out his hands. 

During the morning Pledra crept ghostlike about the 
house. She strained her eyes, now at one window and then 
at another, for the first glimpse of Lon. The luncheon 
hour came and passed, and still the thieves gave no sign 
of coming. Horace had returned from his office early in 
the afternoon, and was smoking a cigar in the library, 
when suddenly a loud peal of the doorbell roused him. 
Pledra, too, heard it distinctly. She was sitting beside 
Ployd; but had not dared to breathe their danger to him. 
Her cheeks paled at the sound, and she rested silent until 
presently summoned to the drawing-room. 

‘‘ What’s the matter ? ” asked her brother. 

Nothin’, Pluke, lay down, and if ye hear anyone 
talkin’ keep still. Somebody’s coming.” 

‘‘ Somebody comes every day,” answered Ployd. 
“ That ain’t nothin’. What ye doin’. Plea ? ” 

She was standing at the door with her ear to the key- 
hole. She heard the servant pass her, heard the door 
open, and Lon’s voice asking for Mr, Shellington. Then 
she slid back to Plukey, trembling from head to foot. 

“ Ye’re sick. Dear,” said the boy. “ Get off this bed, 
Snatchet ! Lay down here by me, Flea and rest.” 


OF THE MISSING 


175 


The girl dropped down beside him and closed her eyes 
with a groan. Floyd placed his thin hand upon her, and 
Fledra remained silent, until she was summoned to the 
drawing-room. 

Who wanted me.^ ” Horace asked the question of the 
mystified servant. 

“ I didn’t catch the name. Sir. I didn’t understand it. 
He’s a dreadful-looking man.” 

Horace rose, put down his cigar, and walked into the 
hall. 

Lon Cronk was waiting with a shabby cap in his hand. 
He bowed awkwardly to Shellington, and essayed to speak ; 
but Horace interrupted: 

Do you wish to see me.? ” 

Yep,” answered Lon, glancing sullenly over the young 
lawyer. I’ve come for my brats.” 

Your what.? ” 

My kids, Flea and Flukey Cronk.” 

Horace felt something clutch at his heart. Fledra’s 
radiant face rose before his mental vision, and he swal- 
lowed hard, as he thought of her relation to the brutal 
fellow before him. 

‘‘ Walk in here, please,” he said. 

Then he bade the servant call his sister. 

Miss Shellington obeyed the summons so quickly that 
her brother was indicating a chair for the squatter as 
she walked in. At sight of the uncouth stranger she 
glanced about her in dismay. 

“ Ann,” said Horace, ‘‘ this is the father = — of — ” 

Ann’s expression snapped off his statement. She knew 
what he would say without his finishing. She remembered 
the stories of terrible beatings, and the story of Fledra’s 
fear of a wicked man who wanted her for his woman. 
The boy’s words came back to her plainly, And he 


176 


FROM THE VALLEY 


weren’t goin’ to marry her nuther, Mister, and that’s the 
truth.” Nevertheless, she stepped forward, throwing a 
look from her brother to the squatter. 

“ But he can’t have them — of course, he can’t have 
them ! ” 

Lon had come with a determination to take the, twins 
peaceably if he could; he would fight if he had to. He 
had purposely applied to Shellington in his home, fearing 
that he might meet Governor Vandecar in Horace’s oflSce. 
As long as everyone thought the children his, he could 
hold to the point that they had to go back with him. He 
would make no compromise for money with the protectors 
of his children; for he had rather have their bodies to 
torment than be the richest man in the state. He had not 
yet avenged that woman dead and gone so many years 
back. At thought of her, he rose to his feet and smiled 
at Ann with twitching lips. 

“Ye said, Ma’m, that I couldn’t have my brats. I say 
that I will have ’em. I’m goin’ to take ’em today. Do 
ye hear? ” 

“ He can’t have them, Horace. Oh ! you can’t say yes 
to him ! ” 

Horace’s mind turned back to Fledra, and he mentally 
blessed the opportunity he had to protect her. 

“ I don’t think, Mr. Cronk, that you will take your 
children,” he said, “ even granted that they are yours. 
I’m not sure of that yet.” 

Lon’s brown face yellowed. Had they discovered the 
secret that he had kept all the dark, revengeful years? 

Horace’s next words banished that fear : “ I shall have 

to have you identified by one of them before I should even 
consider your statement.” 

Cronk smiled in relief; and Ann shuddered, as she 
thought of Flukey’s frail body in the man’s thick, twist- 
ing fingers. 


OF THE MISSING 


177 


“ That be easy enough to do. Jest call the gal — or 
the boy.” 

“ The boy is too ill to get up,” said Ann huskily ; “ and 
I beg of you to go away and leave them with us. You 
don’t care for them — you know you don’t.” 

Who said as how I don’t care for my own brats ? ” 

“ The little girl told me the night she came here that 
you hated her, and also that you abused them.” 

“ I’ll fix her for that! ” muttered Lon. 

‘‘ I don’t believe you’ll touch her while she is with me,” 
said Horace hotly. “ I shall send for the girl, and, if 
you are their father, then — ” 

‘‘ They can’t go ! ” cried Ann. 

“ I haven’t said that they could go, Ann. I was just 
going to say to Mr. Cronk that if they wanted to go 
of course we couldn’t keep them. Otherwise, there is a 
remedy for him.” Horace leaned over toward the squat- 
ter and threw out his next words angrily, “ There’s the 
law, Mr. Cronk ! Ann, please call Fledra.” 

The girl responded with the weight of the world on 
her. Had some arrangements been made for her and 
Floyd between Horace and Lon ? She knew that Ann was 
there, and that Mr. Shellington had been talking with the 
squatter long enough to decide what should be done. She 
walked slowly to the door, her head spinning with anxiety 
and fear. For one single moment she paused on the 
threshold, then stepped within. 

Drop by drop, the color went from her cheeks, leaving 
them waxen white. She threw the squatter an unbending 
opposing glance. 

‘‘Did you come for Fluke and me, Pappy Lon.?” she 
stammered. 

Her lips trembled perceptibly; but she went forward, 
and, taking Ann’s hand in hers, stood facing Cronk. 


178 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Lon looked her over from head to foot. First, his 
gaze took in the pretty dark head ; then it traveled slowly 
downward, until for an instant his fierce eyes rested on her 
small feet. 

“ Yep,” he replied, raising a swift look, ‘‘ I corned for 
ye both — you and Flukey, too. Go and git ready ! ” 

Fledra dared not appeal to Horace. He stood so 
quietly in his place, making no motion to speak, that she 
felt positive that he wished her to go away. She was too 
dazed to count up the sum of her troubles. Her face fell 
into a shadow and grew immeasurably sad. Lon was 
glowering at her, and she read his decision like an open 
page. The dreadful opposition in his shaggy brown eyes 
spurred Fledra forward; but Ann’s arms stole about 
her waist, and the slender figure was drawn close. A feel- 
ing of thanksgiving rushed over the girl. How glad she 
was that she had kept the secret of Everett’s unfaithful- 
ness ! ^ 

“ Sister Ann,” she gasped, “ can’t ye keep us from 
him.? Fluke nor me don’t want to go, and Pappy Lon 
don’t like us, either. I couldn’t go • — I’d ruther die, I 
would! He’d make me go to Lem’s scow! Ye can see 
I can’t go, can’t you.? ” She wheeled around and looked 
at Horace, her eyes filled with a frightened appeal. Shel- 
lington’s glance was compassionate and tender. 

“ I not only see that you can’t go,” said he ; “ but I 
will see to it that you don’t go. Mr. Cronk, I shall have 
to ask you to leave my house.” 

“ I don’t go one step,” growled Lon, ‘‘ till I get them 
kids 1 Where’s Flukey .? ” He made a move toward the 
door; but Horace thrust his big form in front of him. 

“ The boy shall not know that you are here,” said he. 
‘‘ I shall keep it from him because he’s ill, and because 
a great worry like this might seriously harm him. It 
might even kill him.” 


OI' THE MISSING 


179 


Lon’s temper raced away with his judgment. 

“ What do I care if he dies or not.?^ I’m go in’ to have 
him, dead or alive ! ” 

Shellington noted the hatred and menace in the other’s 
tones, and he smiled in triumph. 

“ It’s about as I thought, Mr. Cronk. You care no 
more for these children than if they were animals. That 
statement you just made will go against you at the proper 
time, all right. Please go now, and remember what I’ve 
said, that you have the law. And remember another thing : 
if you do fight, I shall bring everything I can find against 
you, if I have to ask the aid of Governor Vandecar. I 
1 see no other course open to you. Good-day, Sir.” 

I Cronk glared about until his gaze rested upon the two 
j girls. His eyes pierced into the soul of Fledra. She 
j shuddered and drew closer to Miss Shellington. The 
i squatter walked toward the door, and once more looked 
I back, an evil expression crossing his face and settling in 
deep lines about his mouth. 

‘‘Ye remember what I told ye. Flea, the last time I 
seed ye! I meant what I said then, and I say it over 
again ! ” 

The emphasis upon the words struck terror to Fledra’s 
sensibilities. But, with new courage in her eyes, she ad- 
vanced a step, and, raising a set face, replied: 

“ Ye can’t have us. Pappy Lon — you can’t! I’ll take 
care of Flukey, and Mr. Shellington’ll take care r — of — 
me.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


H orace set his teeth firmly as he closed the door ^ 
upon Cronk. Through the door window he saw 
the squatter take his lumbering way down the 
steps, and noticed that the man paused and looked back at ; 
the house. The heavy face was black with baffled rage, and 
Lon raised his fist and shook it threateningly. If Horace 
had been determined in the first instant that the squatter 
-Should not get possession of the twins, he was now many ! 
times more resolute to keep to his decision. Eor his life, 
he could not imagine Lon Cronk the father of his young , 
charges. ^ 

He returned to the drawing-room, and found Ann and | 
Fledra still together, the girl’s face hidden in Miss Shel- | 
lington’s lap. | 

“ Horace,” cried Ann, “ there can’t be any way in which I 
he can take them, can there ? He didn’t tell you how he ‘3 
found out they were here, did he.? ” S 

“No, I forgot to ask him, and it doesn’t matter about | 
that. Our only task now will be to keep them from him. | 
Fledra, when you have finished talking with Ann, will you ^ 
come to me ? ” ] 

Fledra raised her head. Something in Horace’s eyes ‘ 
frightened her. She had never seen him so pale, nor had ' 
his lips ever been so set and white. ' 

Ann rose quickly. Of late Horace’s actions had aroused 
her suspicions. She was now fully convinced that Everett ; 
had been right. Moreover, she had come to feel that she j 
would willingly overlook Fledra’s birth, if her brother’s I 
intentions were serious. v 


180 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 181 


: “ Go to him now, and trust — have faith that you will 

not have to go away ! ” 

Fledra kissed Ann’s hands and tremblingly followed 
Shellington into his study. 

She sat down without waiting for an invitation ; for her 
legs seemed too weak to hold her. Her attitude was at- 
t tentive, and her poise was graceful. For some minutes 
Horace arranged the papers on his desk, while Fledra 
I peeped at him from under her lashes. He looked even 
sterner than when he had ordered Lon to leave the house, 
and his silence terrified her more than if he had scolded 
1 her. At last he turned quickly. 

“ Fledra, I’ve asked you to come here, because I can’t 
; stand our troubles any longer. I believe in my soul that 
you love me ; for you have told me so, and — and have 
given me every reason to hope it. We are facing a new 
danger, both for you and for Floyd, and I am sure you 
want to help me all you can.” He paused a moment, and 
' went on, “ Your suffering is over as far as your own people 
are concerned. There is no law that can force a child as 
old as you are to return to such a hateful place, and I shall 
take it upon myself to see that neither you nor your 
brother is forced to leave here.” 

Fledra uttered a cry and half-rose to her feet; but, as 
Horace continued speaking, she sank down. 

“ I think it probable that we shall have to go to law, 
for Mr. Cronk looks like a very determined man; but 
he’ll find that I will fight his claim every inch of the 
way.” Shellington bent toward her and rested a hand 
on the papers he had been sorting. “ I’m very glad you 
didn’t go to school today, and you must not go again 
until it is over. This man may try to kidnap you.” He 
found it impossible to call Lon her father. 

Fledra reached out and grasped his hands. At her 
touch, Horace flushed to the roots of his hair. Loosen- 


18 ^ 


FROM THE VALLEY 


ing his own fingers, he took hers into his. Finally he 
drew her slowly round the comer of the desk, close into 
his arms. 

“ Fledra, for God’s sake, tell me what has made you 
so unhappy! Will you, child Isn’t it something that I 
ought to know.^ Poor little girly, don’t cry that way! 

It breaks my heart to hear you ! ” 

There was inexplicable weariness on the fair young 
face. 

“ I want to stay here,” moaned Flea ; ‘‘ but what I have 
that hurts me is here.” She drew his fingers close over 
her heart. “It isn’t anything anybody can help — just 
yet.” 

“ I could help you, Fledra,” Horace insisted. “ Every 
man has the power to help the woman he loves, and you 
are a woman, Fledra.” 

“ I want to be your woman.” ■' 

Young as she was, Fledra was an enigma to him. i 
There was but one way to make her his woman, — his wife, | 
— that was to force her confidence, and, once obtained, | 
keep it. But his longing to caress her was stronger than | 
his desire to conquer her, — the warmth and softness of 
her lips he would not exchange for the world’s wealth! j 

“ Sweetheart, Sweetheart ! ” he said, reddening. “ I’m ! 
sorry that I spoke as I did last night, — I was angry, — ^ 
but I’ve had such awful moods lately! Sometimes I’ve ’ 
felt as if I could whip you to make you tell me! ” 

A thrill ran over Fledra from head to foot. 

“ Beat me r — * will you beat me ? ” she murmured, draw- 
ing his hand across her moist lips. “ I’d love to have 
you beat me! Pappy Lon always said that a woman 
needed heatin’ to make her stand around. Then, when I 
saw you, I thought as how princes never beat their women ; 
but now I know you have to.” 

If the young face had been less earnest, the gray eyes 


OF THE MISSING 


183 


1 

less entreating, Horace would have laughed despite his 
j anger. 

' “ Of course, I sha’n’t whip you, child,” he said ; “ only 

I want you to prove your love for me by trusting me. 
You’re a woman, Fledra. It would be an outrage to 
j punish you that way. Then, too, I love you too well to 
I hurt you.” 

I She watched him for one tense moment. She was 
! quivering under his firm grasp like a leaf in the wind, 
i Her eyes were entreating him to trust her, to take her, 
|| regardless of her seeming stubbornness. 

' Fledra,” he whispered, “ if the time ever comes that 
I you can, will you tell me all about it.^ ” 

I “ Yes.” 

And you’ll not lie again ” 

“ I’ve never lied to you ! ” came sullenly. 

“ Never, Fledra ” 

“ Never!” 

“ And you won’t tell another untruth to Ann, either — 
not even once.? ” 

Fledra’s mind flashed to Everett. She might have to 
lie to keep Ann’s happiness for her. She slowly drew 
her hand away, and turned fretfully with a hatred against 
Brimbecomb for bringing all this misery upon them. 

“ I’m not going to promise you that I won’t lie to Sister 
Ann ; but I’ll tell you the truth, always — always — ” 
Because he did not understand a woman’s heart, Horace 
opened the door, white and angered. 

It is beyond my comprehension that you should treat 
a woman as you have my sister. You take advantage of 
her generosity, and expect me to uphold you in it ! ” 
There was a catch of genuine sorrow in his voice. 
Slowly Fledra looked back over her shoulder at him. 

‘‘ You’ve promised me that you’d never tell anybody 
what I told you.” 


184 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


Horace supplemented his last rebuke with: 

“Nor will I! But I insist that you come to me the 
next time you are tempted to lie. Do you hear, Fledra? ” 
“ Yes,” she answered. 

Suddenly she began to sob wildly, and in another in- 
stant fled down the hall. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


N ot more than two weeks after Lon had demanded 
the twins from Horace, Everett Brimbecomb sat 
in his office, brooding over the shadow that had 
so suddenly darkened his life. The dream he had dreamed 
of a woman he could call Mother, of some man — his 
father — of whom he had striven to be worthy, had dis- 
solved into a specter with a shriveled face and shaggy hair, 
into a woman whom he had left in the cemetery to die. 
Although he was secure in the thought that he would 
not be connected with the tragedy, he shuddered every 
time he thought of her and of the coming spring, when the 
body would be discovered. He did not repent the crime 
he had committed; but the fear that the secret of his birth 
would be brought to life tortured him night and day. 
He remembered that Scraggy had said his father wanted 
him; that she had come to Tarrytown to take him back. 
Did his father know who and where he was.^ If so, 
eventual discovery was inevitable. 

Everett’s passion for Fledra only heightened his misery, 
and the girl’s face haunted him continually. In his im- 
agination he compared her with Ann, and the younger girl 
stood out in radiant contrast. He had daily fostered his 
jealous hatred for Horace, and, because of her allegiance 
to her brother, he had come to loathe Ann, although he 
was more than ever determined to marry her. The home 
in which he had been reared repelled him, and he could 
lUow live only for the fame that would rise from his talent 
and work, and for the pleasures that come to those with- 
out heart or conscience. Almost the entire morning had 
185 


186 


FROM THE VALLEY 


been consumed by these thoughts, when two men were 
ushered in to him. 

“ I’m Lon Cronk,” said the taller of the two, “ and this 
be Lem Crabbe, and we hear that ye’re a good lawyer.” 

Everett rose frowningly. 

‘‘ I am a lawyer,” said he ; “ but I choose my clients. 
I don’t take cases — ” 

“ We’ll pay ye well,” interrupted Lon, ‘‘ if it’s money 
ye want. Ye can have as much as that Mr. Shellin’- 
ton — ” 

Everett dropped back again into his chair. The men- 
tion of Horace’s name silenced him. He motioned for 
the men to be seated, without taking his eyes from Lem. 
The scowman’s clothes were in shreds, and, as he lifted his 
right arm, Brimbecomb saw the chapped red flesh, 
strapped to the rusted iron hook. Although Lem had 
not spoken, the young lawyer noted the silent convul- 
sions going on in the dark, full throat, the unceasing move- 
ments of the goiter. 

“ State your case to me, then,” said he tersely. 

Lon Cronk settled back and began to speak. 

‘‘ There’s a man here in this town by the name of Shel- 
lington. He’s a lawyer, too, and he’s got my kids, and 
I want ’em. That’s my case. Mister.” 

Brimbecomb’s heart began to beat tumultuously. 
Chance was giving him a lead he could not have won of 
his own efforts, and he smiled, turning on Cronk more 
cordially. 

“ Have you demanded your children of Mr. Shelling- 
ton? ” he asked. 

“ Yep.” 

Everett bent over eagerly. 

“ What did he say to you? ” 

“ He says as how I could go to the devil, and that I 


OF THE MISSING 


187 


could git the law after him if I wanted ’em. Can I get 
’em. Mister? ” 

The lawyer straightened up, and for many moments was 
deep in thought before answering Lon. The chance of 
which he could never have dreamed had come to him. This 
visit laid open a way for him to tear Fledra from Horace ; 
in fact, he could now legally take her from him with no 
possibility of public discredit to himself. He narrowly 
observed the men before him, and knew that he should 
later be able to force them to do as he wished. He for- 
got his foster father and mother — aye, forgot even Ann — 
as all that was black in his nature inflamed his desire for 
the ebony-haired girl. 

During several minutes he rapidly planned how he 
could bring the affair to a favorable climax with the least 
possible danger. But, whether by fair means or by foul, 
he resolved that Fledra should become his. 

Presently, as if to gain time, he asked: 

“ Do you want them both? ” 

“ Yep.” 

The boy is ill, I hear,” he said. 

‘‘ That don’t make no difference,” cried Lon. “ I want 
him jest the same. Can ye get ’em fer me. Mister? ” 

“ I think so,” replied Everett ; “ and, if I take the case, 
I shall have to ask you to keep out of it entirely, until 
I’m ready for you. We shall probably have to go into 
court.” 

“ Yep, ye’ll have to bring it into court, all right, I 
know ye will. How much money do ye want now ? ” 

“ Fifty dollars,” replied Everett; “ and it will be more 
if I have a suit, and still more if I win. Come here again 
next week Monday, and I’ll lay my plans before you. 

Lon clapped his shabby cap upon his head, and, with 
a surly leave-taking, moved to go. Lem lagged behind; 


188 


FROM THE VALLEY 


but a glance at the lawyer’s forbidding face sent him 
shuffling after the squatter. 

Long after they were gone Everett sat planning a fu- 
ture course. He felt sure that Horace would not allow 
the children to be taken from him without a fight; he 
knew there were special statutes governing these things, 
and took down a large book and began to read. 

Much to his satisfaction, Brimbecomb found a letter 
from Mr. and Mrs. Brimbecomb awaiting him at home 
that evening. In it his foster mother informed him that 
they had decided to return to Tarrytown immediately 
and make ready for a trip abroad, where they hoped that 
Mr. Brimbecomb would recover his health. In a post- 
script from the noted lawyer, Everett read: 

I am glad that you are doing well, dear boy, and when my 
doctor said that I must have a complete rest I knew that I 
could leave you in charge of the office and go away satisfied. 

There followed a few personalities, and after finishing 
the reader threw it down with a smile. He had hesitated 
a moment over the thought that his father would have 
a decided objection to the Cronk case. But his desire 
to work against Horace had overcome his irresolution. 
Now his way was clear! The sooner Mr. and Mrs. 
Brimbecomb were away, the better pleased he would be. 

Floyd was suddenly taken worse. 

“ I think, if you were to come and speak with him, he 
might feel better,” said Ann to Horace. “ He wants to 
see you. Fledra is with him.” 

Floyd was quiet now, his large eyes closed with quiver- 
ing pain. 

“ Floyd ! ” murmured Horace, touching the lad gently. 

The lids lifted, and he put up his hand. 


OF THE MISSING 


189 


“ I’m glad ye come, Brother Horace,” he said in a 
Vhisper. “ I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ye. Will ye take 
Flea out. Sister Ann? ” 

Both girls left the room, as Horace drew a chair to 
the bed. 

‘‘ I ain’t goin’ to get well,” said Flukey slowly. “ I 
know the doctor thinks so, too, ’cause he said there was 
somethin’ the matter with my heart. And I have to go 
and leave Flea.” 

Shellington took the thin, white hand in his. 

‘‘ You must not become downhearted, boy ; that’s not 
the way to get well. And you’re certainly better than 
when you came, in spite of this little setback.” 

Floyd closed his eyes, and Horace saw silent tears roll- 
ing down the boy’s cheeks. The young man bent over 
him. 

“Floyd, are you worrying about your sister?” 

Flukey nodded an affirmative. 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because she ain’t the same as she was. And she ain’t 
happy any more, and I can’t make her tell me. Have ye 
been ugly to her — have ye ? ” 

Horace racked his mind for a truthful answer. Had 
he been unfair to Fledra? 

“ Floyd,” he said softly, “ your sister and I have had 
some words; but we shall soon understand each other — • 
I know we shall ! ” 

“ What did ye say to Flea? ” 

“ I can’t tell you, Floyd, because I promised her I would 
not.” 

The boy writhed under the warm blankets. 

“ She’s always makin’ folks promise not to tell things,” 
he moaned. “ It’s because you’re mad at her, that’s what 
makes her cry so, and I can’t do anything for her. Can’t 
you. Brother Horace? ” 


190 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘ She won’t let me, Flojd.” 

“ Did ye ask her? ” 

‘‘ Many times.” 

Would she let ye if I asked her? ” 

“No, Floyd, you must not! I promised her that I 
would not speak with you about her unhappiness.” 
Horace ejaculated his reply so emphatically that Floyd 
looked at him curiously. 

“ But I can’t die and leave her that way, and Fm a goin’ 
soon. Sometimes my heart jest stands still, and won’t 
start again till I lose all my breath. A feller can’t live 
that way, can he. Brother Horace? ” 

“ It will pass off ; of course, it will — it must 1 ” Horace 
looked into the worn, suffering young face, and a resolu- 
tion took possession of him. 

“ Floyd,” he said huskily, “ Floyd, if I tell you some- 
thing, will you keep it from my sister and yours? ” 

“ Yes,” murmured Flukey. 

“ I love Fledra, and want to make her my wife. Does 
that help you any, to know that I shall always watch her 
and care for her?” 

Flukey searched the earnest face bent over him. 

“Ye love her? ” 

“ Very much, very much indeed. But she is young yet 
— only a little girl.” 

“ Did ye tell her that ye loved her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

‘'Did she say she loved you? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Flukey groaned. 

“ Then it’s something else than that, because I’ve known 
for a long time that Flea loved ye. What’s the matter? 
What’s the matter with ye both? ” 

“ Floyd, when I tell you that I do not know,” answered 
Horace, “ will you believe me ? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


191 


“ Did ye want her to tell ye somethin’ — something 
that’ll keep ye from takin’ her now?” Horace’s silence 
drew an outpouring from Flukey. “ And I suppose she 
said she wouldn’t — and ye won’t take her unless she tells 
ye. Then ye’ll never get her; for, when Flea says she 
won’t, she won’t, if she dies for it! Ain’t ye lovin’ her 
well enough to take her, anyway ? ” 

Horace answered warmly, “ Yes, of course, I am ! ” 

By the dawn of day Floyd had become so much worse 
that a trained nurse was placed at his side, and the physi- 
cian’s verdict, that the boy might die at any moment, over- 
shadowed the threats of the squatter father. 

Lon Cronk had come alone to Everett’s office on the 
hour set. Brimbecomb wondered vaguely where the other 
man was, and what was his concern in the affair. 

After greeting Lon coldly, the young lawyer said: 

“ I should like to know about your life, Mr. Cronk, how 
long your children have been away from you, and all 
about it.” 

“ They’ve been gone since September,” replied Lon. 
‘‘ They runned away from hum, and I ain’t seed ’em till 
I found out that they was at Shellington’s.” 

And how did you discover them? ” 

“ Saw Flea goin’ up the steps,” lied Cronk. “ I 
knowed her the minute I see her, in spite of her pretty 
clothes.” 

“ Then you applied to Mr. Shellington for them? ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ And he refused to deliver them up ? ” 

‘‘ Yep — damn him I But I’ll take ’em, anyway.” 

“ Don’t say that outside my office,” warned Everett. 

The law does not want to be threatened.” 

Lon remained silent. 


192 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ We’ll have to deal with Mr. Shellington very care- 
fully,” cautioned the lawyer; “for he is proud and stub- 
born, and has a great liking for your children. In fact, 

I think he is quite in love with the girl.” 

Lon started to his feet, his swart face paling. 

“ He won’t git her! ” he muttered. “ I’ve got plans for 
that gal, and I ain’t goin’ have no young buck kickin’ 
’em over, I kin tell ye that ! ” 

Brimbecomb’s words put a new light upon the matter. 
That Flea would be protected by the young millionaire 
Lon knew; but that the young man thought of marrying 
her had never come into his mind. 

“ I don’t believe as how he’d marry a squatter girl,” 
he said presently. “ He won’t, if I get her once to 
Ithaca!” 

The mention of Brimbecomb’s college town and birth- 
place brought a new train of thought to the lawyer. 

“ Have you lived in Ithaca many years ? ” he demanded. 

“ Yep.” 

“ The first thing I shall do,” said the attorney deliber- 
ately, “ is to make a formal demand upon Mr. Shelhngton 
in your name, and get his answer. Please remain in *’ 
town where I can see you, and if anything comes up I 
shall write you.” 

Lon gave him the address of a man near the river, and 
Everett allowed his client to go. Some force within him 
had almost impelled him to ask the squatter concerning 
Screech Owl, and he breathed more freely when he thought 
that he had not given way to the temptation to learn 
something about his own people. 

At eight o’clock that evening Everett met Mr. and Mrs. 
Brimbecomb at the station. He could not comprehend the 
feeling that his foster parents had become strangers to 


OF THE MISSING 


193 


him. He kissed his mother, shook hands with Mr. Brimbe- 
comb, and followed them into the carriage. 

He went to bed content with the knowledge that their 
steamer would sail two days later, and that for six months 
he would be alone. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


4 4 TT CAN’T understand why Horace wants to keep 
I those children indefinitely,” said Governor Van- 
decar to his wife one evening. “ It seems their 
own father has turned up and asked for them.” 

“Is Horace going to let him have them.^ ” 

“ Not without a fight, I fear. He talked to me about 
it, and seemed perfectly decided to keep them. I told 
him to take no steps until papers were served upon him.” 

“ Can they keep them, Floyd ” 

Mrs. Vandecar had become suddenly interested in 
Fledra and Floyd. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the governor. “ Such 
things have to be threshed out in court, although much 
will depend upon what the youngsters wish to do. I fear, 
though, that Ann and Horace are making useless trouble 
for themselves.” 

“ What process will the father have to take to get 
them.?^ ” 

“ Have habeas corpus papers issued. It will be a nui- 
sance; but I did not try to change his mind, because he 
was so earnest about it.” 

“ So is Ann,” replied Mrs. Vandecar, “ and then. Dear, 
I always think their kindness to those poor little children 
might make the little dears useful in life sometime. Mil- 
dred says they are very pretty and sweet.” 

“ Well, as I said before, it’s strange that such a case 
should be here in this peaceful little town, and I have 
promised Horace to advise him all I can, although I am 
too busy to take any active part in it.” 

194 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 195 


“ Oh, do everything you ought to, Floyd, if you dis- 
cover that they have really been abused. It might be 
that they would be really harmed if they were taken back 
to their home. Did Horace tell you where they lived ” 

‘‘ Yes, near Ithaca somewhere. I think he said they 
had a shanty on Cayuga Lake.” 

! “One of the squatters.^” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I remember very well,” remarked Mrs. Vandecar 
after a moment’s thought, “ when I went to Ithaca with 
Ann Shellington, and Horace and Everett were graduated 
from the university, that we went up the lake in Brimbe- 
comb’s yacht. The boys called our attention to numbers 
of huts on the west shore, near the head of Cayuga. I 
suppose it must be one of those places the children left.” 

“ I presume so,” replied the governor. 

“Ann telephoned over that the boy was ill with a 
rheumatic heart. She seemed quite alarmed over it.” 

“ He probably won’t get well, if that’s the case,” mur- 
, mured Vandecar. “It’s a pernicious thing when it at- 
tacks the heart. Wasn’t it rather strange that Ann and 

I Horace should have used our names for them, Fledra.? ” 

i “You remember Ann asked me if I cared. She said 

I I that when they came they had some strange nicknames, 
I* and that they wanted to make them forget about their 

former lives, and it really pleased the poor little things 
I to have our names. I don’t mind; do you, Floyd.? ” 

■ “ No,” was the answer. I only wish — ” He stopped 

1 quickly and turned to his wife. 

Her eyes were filled with tears. Floyd Van decar’s wish 
1 had been her own, that she knew. 

I “ I wish you had a son, too, Floyd dear ! ” she sobbed. 

I “ Oh, my babies, my poor, pretty little babies ! ” 

I “ Don’t Fledra, don’t ! ” pleaded her husband. “ It was 
I God’s will, and we must bow to it.” 

I 


196 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ It’s so hard, though, Floyd, so awfully hard, and the 
days have been so long! Floyd, do you ever wonder and 
wonder where they are ? ” 

The man shook his shoulders sharply. 

“ Do I ever wonder, Fledra ? My hair is whitened, my 
life shortened, and many of my efforts of no avail, be- 
cause of my sorrow and yours. If the days have been 
long to you, they have been longer to me; if your heart 
has been torn over their disappearance, mine has been 
doubly hurt, because — because you have depended upon 
me to return them to you, and I have not been able to.” 

He spoke drearily, shading his face with his hand. 

“ Floyd, dear Floyd, I’m not blaming you. I realize 
that if it had been possible you would have given me 
back my babies, and you must not say that your efforts 
have been of no avail. Why, dear husband, the papers 
are full of your great, strong doings. I’m immensely 
proud of you.” She had leaned over him; but the des- 
pondent man did not take the hand from his eyes. 

‘‘ Of all the strange cases, Fledra, ours is the strangest. 
You remember how I turned the state almost upside down 
to find those children. Yet, with all the power I could 
bring to bear, I made no headway.” 

I did not realize that you felt it so deeply,” whispered 
the wife. “I’ve been so selfish — forgive me! We’ll try 
to be as happy as possible, and we have Mildred — ” 

“ If we had a dozen children,” replied the governor 
sadly, “ our first babies would always have their places in 
our hearts.” 

“ True,” murmured the mother. “ How true that is, 
Floyd! There is never a day but I feel the touch of 
their fingers, remember their sweet baby ways. And al- 
ways, when I look at you, I think of them. They were 
so like their father.” I 


OF THE MISSING 


197 


Lon Cronk and Lem Crabbe had arranged between them 
that the scowman should return to Ithaca for some days, 
and so the big thief was alone near the Hudson, in a 
shanty that had been given over to him by a canal friend 
to use when he wished. When Lon decided to rob Horace 
Shellington, he had known that there would have to be 
some place to take the things thus obtained, and had se- 
cured the hut for the purpose. It was at this address 
that Everett came to him, upon his return from New York. 

Lon admitted the lawyer, who found the hut reeking 
with the rank smoke from a short pipe that Cronk held 
in his hand. 

“ Have ye got the kids ? ” the squatter questioned. 

Everett catechized the heavy face with a smile. 

Did you think for a moment it was possible to obtain 
them so quickly? ” 

“ I hain’t had no way of knowin’,” grunted Lon, “ and 
I’m in a hurry.” 

He seemed changed, and looked as if he had not slept. 
Everett wondered if his affection for the children had been 
; so great that his loss of them had altered him thus. The 
lawyer did not know how Lon was tortured when he ca- 
ressed the image of the dead woman, nor could he know 
the man’s agony when her spirit left him suddenly. 

You’ll have to curb your haste,” said Brimbecomb, 
with a curl of his lip. ‘‘ It takes time to set justice in 
1 motion.” 

“ Have ye done anything? ” 

“ Not yet. I was forced to go to New York.” 

I “Hadn’t ye better git a hustle on yerself ? ” snarled 
I' Lon. 

“ Yes, I intend to begin tomorrow ; that is, to take 
the first steps in the matter. But I wanted to talk with 
you first. Are you alone ? ” 


198 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Yep ; there ain’t nobody here. Fire ahead, and say 
what ye’re wantin’ to.” 

Everett bent over and looked keenly into Lon’s face; 
then slowly he threw a question at the fellow: 

‘‘ Are you fond of those two children, or have you other 
motives for taking them from Shellington.^ ” 

Cronk made no reply, but settled back in the rickety 
chair and eyed Everett from head to foot. 

“ Be that any of yer business ? ” he said at length. 

The lawyer took the repulse calmly. He had not come 
to fight with Lon. 

“ It’s my business as far as this is concerned. If you 
care for them, and intend to shield them after you have 
them — well, say from all harm — and do your best for 
them, then I don’t want your case. I’m willing to re- 
turn your money.” 

For a moment the elder man looked disconcerted; then 
he jumped to his feet with an oath. 

“ Put her there. Mister ! ” said he, with an evil smile. 
He thrust forth a great hand, and for an instant Everett 
placed his fingers within it. 

“ I thought I had not guessed wrongly,” the lawyer 
quickly averred. “ If that is how you feel, I can do bet- 
ter work for you.” 

“ I see that. Mister,” muttered Lon. 

Are those children really yours ? ” Everett took out 
a cigar and lighted it. 

‘‘ Yep,” answered Lon, dropping his gaze. 

Everett decided that the man had lied to him, and he 
was glad. 

“ I think you said you had some plans for the girl,” 
he broke forth presently. 

“ Yep ; but no plans be any good when she’s with Shel- 
lington.” 


OF THE MISSING 


199 


“But after she has left him? Would you be willing 
to change your plans for her? ” 

Cronk did not reply, but centered his gaze full upon 
Everett. 

“ The question is, would you, for a good sum of money, 
be willing to give her to me? ” 

“ Why give her to ye. Mister — why ? ” His voice rose 
to a shout. 

“ I want her,” Everett answered quietly. 

“ What for? ” 

“ I love her.” 

“Ye want to marry her?” muttered Lon vindictively. 

“No,” drawled Everett; “I am going to marry Miss 
Shellington.” 

“ Good God ! ye don’t mean it ! And yet ye take this 
case what’s most interestin’ to ’em? Yer gal won’t like 
that. Mister.” 

“ She loves me, and when I explain that it’s all under 
the law she’ll forgive me. There’s nothing quite like 
having a woman in love with you to get her to do what you 
want her to.” 

I “ But her brother, he ain’t lovin’ ye that way. He 

I won’t forgive ye.” 

[ “ He doesn’t cut any ice,” said Everett. “ In fact, I 

hate him, and — 

“ Be ye lovin’ my Flea ? ” Lon’s voice cracked out the 
question like a gunshot. 

“ I think so.” 

“ Be Flea lovin’ you, or him? ” 

“ She loves him.” 

“ Then it will hurt her like the devil to take her away 
from him, eh? ” 

The eagerness expressed in the squatter’s tones con- 
firmed Everett’s suspicions. Cronk hated that boy and 


200 


FROM THE VALLEY 


[girl. Brimbecomb impassively overlooked Floyd ; but Flea 
he would have! 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I think it will hurt them both.” 

How much money will ye give if I hand her over to 
ye? ” asked Cronk presently. 

How much do you want ? ” 

“Wal, Mister, it’s this way: Ye remember that feller 
I had with me t’other day ? ” Everett nodded. “ I 
mean, the feller with the hook? ” Again Everett inclined 
his head. ‘‘ I said as how he could have Flea. Ye has 
to buy him off, too, and that ain’t so easy as ’tis to settle 
with me — especially, as ye ain’t goin’ to marry Flea. I 
ain’t goin’ to give her to no man what’s honest ^ — ye 
hear? ” 

“ I supposed as much,” commented Everett, reddening. 

“ Lem’s been waitin’ for Flea for over three years, and 
I said as how ye’d have to buy him off, too.” 

“ That’s easy. .Where is he ? ” 

‘‘ Gone to Ithaca. He’s went up to bring down his 
scow. It’s gettin’ ’long to be spring, and it’s easier to lug 
the kids back by water, and we know that way, and it don’t 
cost so much. I telled him when he went away that he 
could have the gal as soon as we got back to the settle- 
ment. Lem won’t reason for a little bit of money.” 

“ Money doesn’t count in this,” assured Everett. 
‘‘ Now, then, if I take this case, put it through without 
cost to you, and give you both a good sum, will you give 
me the girl ? ” 

“ If ye promise me ye won’t marry her.” 

Everett laughed, his white teeth gleaming through his 
lips. 

“ Don’t let that worry you, Mr. Cronk. I have no 
desire to place at the head of my home a girl like yours. 
I told you that I was going to marry Miss Shellington 


OE THE MISSING 201 

— and not even that damned brother of hers can prevent 
it!” 

For a long time after Everett had left the hut Lon 
sat meditating over what he had heard. He wondered if 
Everett really loved Ann, and, if he did, how he could 
wish for Flea. How another woman could erase from 
any man’s mind the picture of a loved woman, Lon with 
his loyal heart could not understand. He sat for an hour 
with his head on the old wooden table, and planned what 
he should do with Flukey, leaving it to the brilliant-eyed 
lawyer to dicker with Lem for Flea. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


H orace SHELLINGTON took a long breath as 
he entered his office one morning in the latter part 
of March. The blustering wind that had raged 
all night had almost subsided, and he felt glad for Floyd’s 
sake; for, no matter how warm they kept the little lad, 
the sound of the wind through the trees and the dismal 
wail of the branches at night made him shiver and fret 
with nervous pain. Horace had scarcely seated himself 
when Everett Brimbecomb entered the room. 

‘‘Hello, Horace!” said the latter jovially. “I was 
going to come in yesterday, but was not quite ready to 
see you. Haven’t been able to get a word with you in 
several days.” 

Horace offered a chair, and Everett sank into it. 

“ You are always so busy when I run in to see Ann,” 
Brimbecomb went on, “ that one would think you were 
not an inmate of that house.” 

“ Yes,” said Horace, “ I’ve been studying up on an 
interesting case I expect to handle very soon.” 

Everett laughed. 

“ So have I,” he said, narrowing his lids and looking 
at Shellington. 

“ When one is connected with offices as we are, 
Everett,” remarked Horace uninterestedly, “ there is little 
time for visiting.” 

“ I find that, too,” replied Everett. 

During the last few weeks Horace had seen little of 
his sister’s fiance ; in fact, since their quarrel he had 
drawn away from the young man as a companion; but 

W2 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 203 


above everything else he desired his gentle sister to be 
^^PPy> and the man before him was the only one to 
make her so. He thought of this, and smiled a little more 
cordially as he said: 

‘‘Is there anything I can do for you, Everett? ” 

“ Well, yes, there is,” admitted Brimbecomb. 

“ ril do anything I can,” replied Horace heartily. 

Brimbecomb hesitated before going on. Shellington 
looked so grave, so dignified, so much more manly than 
he had ever seen him, that he scarcely dared open his 
subject. 

“ It’s something that may touch you at first, Hor- 
ace,” he explained ; “ but — ” 

Horace, unsuspicious, bent forward encouragingly: 

“ Go ahead,” he said. 

Everett flushed and looked at the floor. 

“ A case has just come into our office, and, as my 
father is gone from home, I have taken it on.” 

Horace listened expectantly. Everett could have struck 
the man in the face, he hated him so deeply. He groaned 
mentally as he thought of Scraggy and her wild-eyed cat 
and of his endeavor to close her lips as to her relation 
to him. It was a great fear within him that soon his 
father would appear as his mother had. The time might 
come when this haughty man before him would have rea- 
son to look upon him with contempt. To make Horace 
understand his 'present power was the one thought that 
now dominated him. 

With this in mind, he began to speak again: 

“ A man came to us with a complaint that you were 
keeping his children from him.” ' 

If Horace had received the blow the other longed to 
give, he could not have been more shocked. 

“ I believe his name is Cronk,” went on Everett, tak- 
ing a slip from his pocket ; “ yes, Lon Cronk.” 


^04 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Horace took his paper-knife from the table and twirled 
it in his fingers. His face had grown ashen white, his 
lips were set closely over his teeth. 

“ I have met this Cronk,” he said in a low tone. 

‘‘ So I understand. He told me that he had been at 
your home, and had demanded his children, and that you 
had refused to give them up.” 

“ I did ! ” There was no lack of emphasis in the words. 

‘‘ And you said that he could not have them unless he 
went to law for them.” 

“ I did ! ” said Horace again. 

And he came to me.” 

Horace rose to his feet, a deep frown gathering on 
his brow. Everett rose also, and the two men faced 
each other for a long moment. 

“ And you took the case ? ” Horace got out at last. 

‘‘ Yes, I took the case,” Everett replied. 

And yet you knew that Ann loved them ? ” 

I was — was sure that if you both understood — ” ■ 

The speaker’s hesitation brought forth an ejaculation 
from Shellington. 

“ What are we to understand ? ” 

‘‘ That justice must be done the father,” responded 
Everett quickly. 

Horace squared his jaw and snapped out: r 

“ Do I understand that, in spite of the near relationship 
of our family, you are willing to deal a blow to my 
sister and me that, if it falls, will be almost unbearable , 
You intend to fight with this squatter for his chil- 
dren?” 

“ I don’t intend to fight, Horace, if you’re willing : 
to give them to me. I had much rather have our : 
present relations go on as they are, without a breach 
in them. I think, if you and Ann talk it over, you will j 
see that by giving the boy and girl into my hands — ” 


OF THE MISSING 


^05 


Horace came a step nearer, with darkening brow : 

“ You can go straight to hell ! ” he said, so fiercely 
that Everett started back. “ And the sooner you go, the 
better I shall be pleased,” his face reddened as he finished, 
“ and so will Ann ! ” 

You’re speaking for someone who has not given you 
authority,” Everett sneered. “ Your sister will give me 
at least one of those children — I imagine, the girl. I 
think the father is more particular about having her.” 

“ I should think he would be, and you may take him 
this message from me: that, if he sneaks about my house 
at any time of day or night. I’ll have him shot like a 
dog, for every man can protect his own; and if you — ” 

Everett, seeing his chance, broke in: 

“ He would be protecting his own, if he came to your 
home, for his own are there; and we are going to have 
those children before another month goes by!” 

“ Try it, and perhaps I may bring to your mind what 
you once said to me about that girl,” muttered Horace, 
with set teeth. “ Your errand being finished, Mr. Brim- 
becomb, you may go ! ” 

Everett had received the worst of the encounter. He 
had expected that Horace would consider Fledra’s and 
Floyd’s case in a gentler way, would probably compromise 
for Ann’s sake. He went out not a little disturbed. 

Horace waited for a few moments after Brimbecomb 
left him before he took his hat and coat and went home. 
Ann was surprised to see him, and more surprised when 
he drew her into the drawing-room, where he mysteriously 
closed the door. 

‘‘ Ann,” he said solemnly, I believe the turning point 
in your life has come. And I want you to judge for 
yourself and take your own stand without thinking of my 
happiness or comfort.” 


^06 


FROM THE VALLEY 


The young woman lifted startled eyes and searched 
his face. 

“What is it, Horace — that squatter again Has he 
made a move against us ” 

Horace bent over and took her hands in his. 

“ He has not only made a move against us, as far 
as the children are concerned, but he has used an instru- 
ment you would never have dreamed of.” Seeing his 
sister did not reply, he went on, “ Just what legal pro- 
cedure they will undertake I don’t know ; but that will come 
out in time. Cronk went to Everett Brimbecomb with the 
case, and I was notified this morning by Everett to give 
up the children.” 

“ Everett ! ” breathed Ann, disbelieving. “ My Ev- 
erett ? ” 

“ Yes, your Everett, Ann. Don’t, child, please don’t ! ! 

Ann, Ann, listen to me! . . . Yes, sit down. . . . i 

Now wait!” | 

He held her closely in his arms until the storm of \ 
sobs had passed, and then placed a pillow under her head 
and went on gravely: j 

“ Ann, I have come to this conclusion : you love Everett J 
dearly, and I cannot understand his actions ; but I’m 
not going to intrude upon your affection for him, nor j 
his for you. I’m going to ask you not to take sides with fi 
either of us. I’m a lawyer, and so is he. Do you under- 
stand, Ann.^ ” 

Fearfully she clutched his fingers. | 

“ But Fledra and Floyd — I can’t let them go back, i 
I can’t ! I can’t ! ” | 

“ They’re not going back,” said Horace firmly. “ Mind ' 
you, Ann, even to renew my friendship with Brimbecomb, 

I shouldn’t give them up.” j 

“ Renew your friendship ! ” gasped Ann. “ Oh, have ^ 
you quarreled with him, Horace.^ ” j: 


OF THE MISSING 


207 


Yes, and told him to leave my office.” 

[Ann sobbed again. 

“ What a fearful tragedy is hanging over us ! ” she 
cried. 

“ It is worse than I imagined it could be,” Horace 
declared; ‘‘much worse, for I never thought that the 
squatter could get a reputable firm to represent him. And 
as for Everett — well, he never entered my mind. I told 
him that he could not take those children, and that he 
might — ” 

He remembered plainly what he had said, but did not 
communicate it to his sister. She was so frail, so gently 
modest, that an angry man’s language would hurt her. 

“ I told him,” ended Horace, “ to do whatever he 
thought best, and that, if Cronk came here again, I should 
shoot him down like a dog. I think we ought to tell 
Fledra, and then, too, I desire to speak to her of some- 
thing else. Can you bring her to me, Ann, without fright- 
ening Floyd ” 

It did not need Ann’s quiet plucking at her sleeve to 
tell Fledra that the blow had fallen. She had expected 
it day after day; until now, when she faced Horace and 
looked into his tense face, she felt that her whole hope had 
gone. 

Ann tiptoed out before her brother opened his lips. 

For a moment the harassed man knew not what to say 
to the silent, trembling girl. 

“ Fledra,” he began, “ the first move has been made 
in your case by your father.” 

“ Must we go.?^ ” burst from the quivering lips. 

“No, no: not if you have told me the truth about 
your past life — I mean about your father being cruel 
to you.” 

The sensitive face gathered a deep flush: 


^08 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I’ve never lied to you. Brother Horace,” she replied 
gently. 

“ If I could believe you, child, if I could place ab- 
solute confidence in your word, I should have courage 
to go into the struggle without losing hope.” 

“ What’s Pappy Lon done.?* ” 

‘‘ He has employed Everett Brimbecomb to take you 
back to Ithaca.” 

Fledra shrank back as if he had struck her. Swiftly 
into her mind came the smiling, handsome face of the 
lawyer whom Ann loved. His brilliant eyes seared her 
soul like fire. In all her life, even when facing Lem 
Crabbe, she had never felt as she did now. She saw Floyd 
fading into the graveyard beyond, while she was being 
tom from the only haven of rest she had ever known. 
Lem Crabbe could not have taken her; but Everett Brim- 
becomb could! She felt again his burning kisses, the 
clasp of his strong arms, and her own disgust. He seemed 
a giant of strength, and Horace’s white face and set 
lips aggravated her fear. Fledra’s desire for comfort 
had never been so great as the desire she had at this mo- 
ment to open her tired heart to Horace and reveal to 
him Everett’s perfidy. 

‘‘ Did you tell Sister Ann about Mr. Brimbecomb.? ” 

She stumbled over the name. 

« Yes.” 

“What did she say.?” 

“ My sister loves him — you know that. She is heart- 
broken that he should have accepted this case. We must 
make it as easy as we can for her, dear child.” 

The girl saw Horace’s lips twitch as he spoke, and 
thought of the love he had for his sister, and her desire 
to tell him what she knew died immediately. 

“ Do you want me to go with Pappy Lon and not make 
any trouble for her.? ” she whispered. 


OF THE MISSING 


209 


No, no, not that! You can’t go, Fledra, and they 
can’t take you, if — you have told me the truth about 
the man your father wanted to give you to.” 

Floyd and I told the truth,” she said seriously, lift- 
ing her eyes to his face; “but for Sister Ann I’d go 
away with Pappy Lon, and with Lem, if you’d take care 
of Fluke till he — ” 

“ Don’t, Fledra, don’t 1 ” groaned Horace. “ It would 
tear me to pieces to give you up. But — but you 
couldn’t relieve my mind. Dear, could you.? ” 

Fledra knew what he meant, and shook her head. 

“ No, not now,” she replied. 

If it troubled Ann to have Everett take part in their 
going back to the squatter country, how much worse she 
would feel if she knew what he really had done ! Horace’s 
appeal to shield Ann from overmuch burden strengthened 
Fledra’s courage. 

“Can you keep us.?” she asked, after a moment’s 
thought. 

“ I am going to try.” 

“ If you love me well. Brother Horace,” said Fledra, 
“ won’t you believe that I’d do anything for Sister Ann and 
you.? ” 

He nodded his head ; but did not speak. 

When he reached Ithaca, Lem Crabbe found a flood 
besieging the forest city. The creeks of Cascadilla and 
Six Mile Gorge had overflowed their banks, and the lower 
section of the town was under water. He had come back 
for the scow, and to find Scraggy. He was determined to 
force from her the whereabouts of his son. He wended 
his way toward the hut of one of his friends at the in- 
let, and hailed the boat that conveyed the squatters to 
and fro in flood-time. As the boat lapped the muddy 
water breaking into the weeds and brushes, Lem saw Eli 


210 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Cronk perched in another boat, with a spear in his hand. 

Eli ! ” shouted Lem. 

Eli greeted him with a wave of the pole. 

The boats neared each other, and Lem shouted that 
he wanted to get into Cronk’s craft. 

‘‘What ye doin’ asked Crabbe, as the boat he had 
just left shot away toward the bridge. 

“ Catching frogs,” replied Eli. “ I sell a lot of ’em 
to the hotels, and this flood is jest the thing to make 
’em thick.” He lowered his spear and brought up a 
struggling frog. Throwing it into a covered box, he 
peered again into the water. 

“ Where’s Lon ? ” he said, straightening again with 
another victim. 

“ To Tarrytown.” 

“ What’s he to Tarrytown fer ? ” 

“ He’s a gittin’ Flea and Flukey. That’s where they 
runned to.” 

“ He ain’t found ’em, has he? Truth, now! ” 

“ Yep, truth,” answered Lem ; “ and he’s got a fine- ; 
lookin’ lawyer-pup to git ’em for him.” I 

As Eli again and again thrust his spear into the water, ' 
Lem told the story of the finding of the twins. He re- 
frained from speaking of his experience with Screech Owl; ' 
but said finally, as if with little interest: | 

“Ye ain’t seen Scraggy, has ye? ” 

“ Nope; and she ain’t in her hut, nuther; or she wasn’t : 
awhile back, ’cause I stopped there, when I was a lookin’ * 
for Lon.” | 

“ When did ye git back to town ? ” i 

“I dunno jest what day it were,” responded Cronk, i 
spearing again. i 

“ Can I git up the tracks, Eli? ” inquired Lem presently, j 
“Ye’ll have to wade in mud to yer knees fer a spell 
after ye leave the boat.” 


OF THE MISSING 


211 


“ I can take the hill over the tracks for a wa^. Will 
ye row me up as far as ye can? ” 

“ Yep, I’ll row ye up,” replied Eli, proceeding with his 
work. 

Late in the afternoon, Lem Crabbe, wet to his knees 
and covered with mud, entered the scow. He had stopped 
at Screechy’s hut, knocked, and, having received no an- 
swer, clicked down the hill to the boat. 

He made up his mind to stay there until Scraggy came 
back; then he would go back to Tarrytown and bring the 
twins to Ithaca. Every morning Lem mounted the hill, 
only to find that Screech Owl had not returned. But one 
day, just at dusk, as he appeared before the hut, he saw 
the flickering of a candle. He did not wait to knock, 
but entered, and found Scraggy stretched out on the old 
bed. She looked up as if she had expected him, noted 
his dark face, and lowered her head again. 

“ Black Pussy’s gone, Lem. I’ve got a cold settin’ 
on me here,” she whispered, wheezing as she laid her 
hand on her chest. 

“ I hope it’ll kill ye ! ” grunted Lem. What did you 
leave the toolhouse fer, when I told ye to stay? ” 

“What toolhouse, Lemmy?” The dazed eyes looked 
up at him in surprise. 

“ Don’t try none of yer guff on me. I want to know 
who ye went to see in Tarrytown, and who the man was 
that throwed ye over the fence, and then lugged ye off 
to that vault?” 

Scraggy sat up painfully. 

“ I wasn’t throwed over no fence.” 

“Ye was, ’cause I seed the man when he done it. I 
wish now that I’d a gone and settled with him. Who 
was he, Screechy ? ” 

“ I dunno,” she answered. 




FROM THE VALLEY 


Lem Uent over her, his eyes blazing with wrath. 

‘‘Ye want to git yer batty head a workin’ damn quick,” 
he shouted, “ or I’ll slit yer throat with this ! ” The rusty 
hoojk was thrust near the thin, drawn face. 

“ I can’t think tonight,” muttered Screech Owl, “ ’cause 
the bats be a runnin’ ’bout in my head. When I think. 
I’ll tell ye, Lemmy.” 

“ Where be that boy ? ” demanded Lem. 

Scraggy shook her head. Every time she thought of 
Lem’s questions, there was an infernal tapping of un- 
numbered winged creatures at the walls of her brain. 

“ There ain’t no boy that I knows of,” she said list- 
lessly, sinking down again. “ And ye wouldn’t slit my 
neck when I ain’t done nothin’, would ye, Lemmy ? ” 

“ Ye has done somethin’,” growled Lem. “ Ye has 
kep’ that brat from me these years past, and now he’s j 
big ’nough I’m go in’ to have him! Ye hear?” Every i 
word he uttered came forth with effort. The red mark I 
under his chin moved relentlessly, preventing him from < 
speaking with clearness. 

Scraggy writhed beneath the tightening grasp of the I 
jnan’s wet fingers. 

“ I’ll choke ^ to death I ” Lem gasped, between throaty 
convulsions. !; 

^ Lemmy, Lemmy dear — ” j 

Another twist of Lem’s fingers, and the woman sank 
back unconscious. Lem shook her roughly. i 

“ Scraggy, Scraggy ! ” he cried wildly. “ Set up ! I i 
want to talk to ye 1 Set up ! ” i 

The silence in the gloomy hut, the whiteness of the | 
seemingly dead woman, filled Lem with superstitious dread. ' 

He grasped his lantern and ran out, failing to close the | 
door. 1 

The frightened man made off up the hill, and, passing 
through the Stebbins farm by the Gothic church and' 


OF THE MISSING 


213 


dark graveyard, he tramped the Trumansburg road to 
Ithaca. The tracks were covered with water as they had 
been when Eli had given him the lift toward the settle- 
ment. But the flood had so receded that by drawing his 
trousers up over his boots Lem managed to get through 
the mud to the bridge. From there he sought the house 
of Middy Bumes, where he made an agreement with the 
tugman that the scow should be towed from Ithaca to 
Tarrytown. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


T O usher Everett into her home with the same fond 
heart as hitherto was more than Ann could do. 
Dearly as she loved him, much as she desired to 
be his wife, it was hard to pardon him for casting aside 
her interests for those of the dark-browed squatter. But, 
womanlike, she felt that she could break down her lover’s 
determination, and resolved that she would not hesitate to 
open argument with him. 

Everett met her with a smile, and her lips trembled as 
they received his warm kiss. After they were seated he j 
said : I 

Horace has told you, no doubt, Ann, of the children’s j 
case.” She nodded her head sorrowfully. Your 
brother seems to feel,” went on Everett, “ that I should | 
not have taken charge of it.” • \ 

“ Neither should you have done so, Everett, unless 
you’ve other motives than we know of.” 

She looked up; but lowered her eyes as Brimbecomb 
glanced at her furtively. Had Fledra told her of his 
advances.^ No, or she would never have received his kisses. 
His fears were quieted by this thought, and he asked 
gently : 

“ What motives could I have other than that justice 
should be done the father.? I took the case, first, because 
it came to me; then, because I think the man ought to 
have his children.” 

Miss Shellington’s face darkened. 

“ Oh, Everett, you can’t be so hard-hearted as to want 

^14 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 215 

those poor little things misused! They have been per- 
secuted by their own people, and you certainly have more 
heart than to want that to happen again.” 

Its not a case of feeling; it’s a case of justice. I 
know how this man has struggled all his life to rear 
this boy and girl. They’ve had no mother, and then, as 
soon as they were old enough and had the chance, they 
ran away.” 

“ Because he was cruel to them ! ” 

‘‘ I don’t believe it. I’ve had something to do with 
men, and I’m assured that he told me the truth. I be- 
lieve, as he says, that they excused their leaving home 
by brazen lies. Have you never caught them lying to 
you, Ann ? ” 

“ No, no 1 They’ve always been truthful to me.” 

“ And to Horace ? ” 

“ I haven’t asked him. But, if they hadn’t been, I am 
sure he would have spoken of it. Everett, let me plead 
with you. They have been with us a long time, and 
Horace and I have grown used to them. They need 
our care more than I can tell you. The boy is still very 
ill. Won’t you let my love for you plead for them, and 
withdraw from the case.^^ Do, Dear, and let me call 
Horace. Will you, Everett.? He’s so sad over it! Oh! 
may I call him.?” She had risen from her chair; but 
a negative shake of the man’s head made her resume her 
place again, and she continued, “ It will be a dreadful 
thing for them, if they have to go back. Now, listen, 
Everett! If you will withdraw and let Horace settle it 
with that man, our arrangements,” her face was dyed 
crimson, — “ I mean your plans and mine for our wedding, 
shall remain as they are. Otherwise — ” 

Otherwise, what.? ” breathed Everett, bending toward 

her. 

‘‘ I r — ^ I shall have to postpone them.” Her voice had 


FROM THE VALLEY 


ai6 

strengthened as she spoke, and the last statement was 
clear and ringing. 

“ Oh, you couldn’t, Ann ! Because I take a perfectly 
legitimate case, which comes into our office, you propose 
to postpone our marriage? ” 

“ But, Everett, think of what you are doing ! It is as 
if you had taken my brother by the throat. You were the 
first one to suggest that he might love the girl. What if 
he does ? ” 

“We will not talk of Horace, please.” Everett turned 
from her as he spoke. “ You and I are the parties in- 
terested. If you will aid me, and you should, seeing that 
you love me, your brother need not be considered.” 

Ann rose, shuddering. 

“ You do not mean, Everett, that you wish to gain my 
consent that Fledra and Floyd should go back to Ithaca? ” 

Brimbecomb also rose. 

“ Fledra and Floyd ! ” he mimicked smilingly. “ What 
a farce it all is ! And how foolish to give them such 
names! I should think the governor and his wife would 
feel complimented that those kids were called for them! 
They are but paupers, after all 1 ” 

“ Everett,” stammered Ann, “ am I just beginning to 
know you? Oh, you can’t mean it! You’re but jesting 
with me, aren’t you. Dear?” Her love for him impelled 
her forward, and her slender hands fell upon his shoulders. 
He slipped them off, and gathered her fingers into his. 

“Ann,” he said earnestly, “ I’m not jesting, and I ask 
you, by your love for me, to aid me in this, the first 
thing of importance I have ever asked you.” 

Miss Shellington drew reluctantly away. 

“ I can’t, I can’t ! My very soul revolts at the idea.” 
Then, gaining strength of voice, the girl, marble-white, 
exclaimed, “ If you’re not jesting, and are still determined 
to follow out your plans,” she caught her breath in a 


OF THE MISSING 


^17 


sob and whispered, then, like my brother, I shall have 
to ask you to leave, please.” 

A frown darkened Everett’s face, followed by an ex- 
pression of ridicule. 

“ Is this your love for me.^ You would let two strange 
squatter children come between us.?^ Am I to understand 
it so ” 

“ You may understand this : that, after knowing that 
j their father is wicked, that he would have sacrificed his 
I daughter to a vile man, without marriage to lessen her 
! suffering, after knowing that he tried to make a thief 
I of his noble-hearted boy, — I say, after knowing all this, 
if you can still insist upon helping him, then I would not 
dare — to trust — my life with you ! ” 

Everett’s rage blotted out all remembrance of how he 
left the house; but there was a vivid picture in his mind 
i of a woman, pale and lovely, opening the door and dis- 
missing him coldly. He remembered also that she had 
shut the door as if it were never to be opened again to 
I him. His only consolation was that before long he would 
i be able to face Fledra Cronk and prove his power to 
her. With this thought came the satisfaction of knowing 
that he would be able to wring Horace Shellington’s 
heart. 

After closing the door upon her lover, Ann stood breath- 
less. The light had suddenly gone from her sun — the 
whole living world seemed plunged into darkness. Everett 
was gone, gone from her possibly forever. His face had 
expressed a determination that proved he would not change 
his mind. Why had he reasoned himself into thinking 
that justice could be served in the squatter’s cause .f* 
Everett must have a motive. Her judgment told her to 
accuse the man she loved; her heart demanded that she 
excuse him. For one instant her generous spirit balanced 
the squatter children’s welfare and her own future. She 


FROM THE VALLEY 


gl8 

had promised to protect Fledra and Floyd, promised them 
and Horace. Only a broken prayer escaped her lips as 
she turned and walked quickly down the hall. She did not 
wait to knock, but twisted the door-handle convulsively, 
and appeared before her brother without a plea for pardon 
for her unannounced entrance. 

“He’s gone forever!” she said brokenly. “Oh, oh, I 
can’t — ” 

She swayed forward, and suddenly a merciful oblivion 
rested her turbulent spirit, during which her agonized 
brother worked, hoping and praying that she might soon 
know how he pitied and loved her. 

At length, when she opened her eyes and gazed at him, 
Ann murmured under her breath, with a world of plead- 
ing: 

“ Don’t speak of him =— don’t ! Dear heart, I can’t 
— I can’t bear it ! ” 

It was not until long afterward that Horace Shellington 
heard of the scene through which she had passed. 

Everett Brimbecomb’s card admitted him to the gov- 
ernor’s home. Mrs. Vandecar welcomed him with out- 
stretched hands. 

“ Strange, Everett,” said she, “ but I was thinking only 
this afternoon that I should ask you to dinner. I feel 
ashamed that I haven’t before; but I’ve been such an in- 
valid for a long time ! You must be lonely, now that your 
father and mother are gone.” 

“ I’ve been busy.” 

The other laughed understandingly. 

“ Ah ! I had forgotten that a young engaged man has 
but few free evenings on his hands.” 

To this Everett did not reply. 

“How is dear Ann.?” asked Mrs. Vandecar. 

“ I left her quite well ; but not in the best of spirits. 


OF THE MISSING 


^19 

In fact, dear little lady,” and he bent over the white hand 
he held, “ I’ve come to ask a favor of you.” 

“ Is it anything about Ann ? 1 can’t have matters dis- 

arranged between you two. I’ve always said you were an 
ideal couple.” 

Thank you,” murmured Everett. 

Her frank words somewhat shattered his courage; for 
he knew her to be kind-hearted. He did not expect to 
have her make any impression upon the Shellington 
brother and sister; but wished her assistance as far as 
her husband was concerned. 

He kept his gaze so long upon the floor that Mrs. 
Vandecar spoke: 

“ I’m glad you came to me, Everett.” 

“ Yes, I’m glad, too, and I need your help just now. 
The fact is, Ann and I have had words over a case I 
1 have taken charge of in the office.” 

How very strange ! ” exclaimed the woman, mystified. 

“ It’s no more strange to you than to me,” went on 
Everett, after they were seated. ‘‘ First, Horace and I 
quarreled, and then, thinking Ann would uphold me in 
my work, I went to her ; getting about the same reception 
I had received from him.” 

“ I should never have believed it of either of them,” 
faltered Mrs. Vandecar. ‘‘ But do tell me about it.” 

“ Horace and Ann, as you know, have a boy and a 
girl in their charge.” 

The governor’s wife sat up interestedly. 

“ I have heard of them,” said she ; “ but have never 
seen them. I asked Ann over the telephone one day this 
week, if I sent Katherine for the girl, would she allow 
her to come and spend an afternoon with Mildred. But 
she said that — ” 

“ Fledra, they call her,” interrupted Brimbecomb, with 
a keen glance at his companion. 


FROM THE VALLEY 


2^0 

‘‘ Yes, so I’ve heard. Ann said that this Fledra was 
not going out at all.” 

“ Do you know why ? ” 

‘‘ Why, I supposed that it was because their father had 
asked for them and they feared some foul play.” 

‘‘ Foul play ! ” cried Brimbecomb. “ Why, Mrs. Van- 
decar, don’t you think that a father ought to have his 
own children ” Everett’s eyes pierced her gaze until it 
dropped. 

‘‘ Not if he is bad,” murmured she, “ and I heard he 
was brutal to them.” 

‘‘ It is not so ; of that I am sure. That is the matter 
I have come about. I have accepted the father’s case.” 

‘‘ Oh, Everett, was this necessary for you to do, as 
long as you know Ann’s heart is set upon keeping them.? ” 

Everett twisted nervously. 

“ She has no right to have her heart set upon them. 
Now, here is what I want you to do. Ann is wearing 
away her health with these scrubs of humanity, for which 
she won’t even receive gratitude, and Horace looks like 
a June shad. The boy has been sick constantly since 
he’s been there. If there were no hospitals in the town, 
it might be different. I must make a move to separate 
the girl I love from the burden she can’t bear.” 

Everett averted his face. Until that moment this ex- 
cuse had not come into his mind. If Mrs. Vandecar had 
any affection at all for Ann, the thought that the girl 
was making herself ill would tempt her to interfere. 

“ Everett, does Ann know why you want to take them 
away from her ? ” 

“ Of course not ; I couldn’t tell her that, nor Horace, 
either. They would have promptly told me to attend to 
my own affairs; but I could come to you.” 

“ I’m so glad — I’m so glad you did ! And poor Ann, 


OF THE MISSING 


221 


I wish she would allow her friends to help her! She’s 
such a darling in her charitable work, though, isn’t she? ” 

“ I don’t agree with you,” dissented Everett. 

“ But you must admit, boy, that a girl who will make 
a hospital of her home, who will wear out her strength 
for two little strangers, has the heart of Christ in her.” 

“ I admit her goodness,” said Everett slowly, “ or I 
should not want her for my wife. But you can’t blame 
me when I say that I desire her to be herself again.” 

Mrs. Vandecar rose. 

“ Well, come in to dinner, and we can still talk. Mil- 
dred has gone to her father in Albany with Katherine 
for a day or two, and I’m alone.” 

When they were seated, Everett pressed his plea again. 

“ I don’t think Ann would have been so stubborn in 
the matter, if Horace had not insisted upon it. And I 
know that you will be surprised to hear that he is in love 
with the girl, a little pauper who uses bad English and 
swears like a pirate.” 

Fledra Vandecar dropped her fork and started back 
from the table. 

“ Everett, has Horace lost his mind, or what is it? 
What can there be in two children — for they are very 
young — to have such a hold upon a man like Horace 
and a woman like Ann? ” 

‘‘ I have asked myself that a dozen times, and more,” 
commented Everett. “But now you understand why I 
want to do something to relieve these misguided young 
people — to say nothing of my love for Ann ? ” 

“ I do understand,” replied Mrs. Vandecar, “ and I 
can’t blame you. But, really, I don’t see what I can do, 
! without incurring the enmity of both of my friends.” 
i “ Your husband,” breathed Everett. 

“ Is pledged to Horace in this very matter, and, of 


222 


FROM THE VALLEY 


course, I couldn’t take a stand against him. Everett, 
why don’t you drop the case and let time take its course 
I fear that you’re going the wrong way.” 

Brimbecomb bit his lip. He might have known that 
Horace would apply to the governor; but he had hoped 
to steal a march upon him and to keep the state’s official 
from aiding him. But Everett also knew what an influ- 
ence Mrs. Vandecar had over her husband, and now re- 
joined: 

“ I have gone too far with it ; and, what’s more, if I 
have to bear the brunt of the thing alone. I’ll free Ann 
from a presence that has completely changed her! Have 
you seen her lately? ” 

Mrs. Vandecar shook her head. 

I haven’t,” she admitted slowly. ‘‘ I haven’t been 
well enough to go out, and she hasn’t been here. I have 
heard from her only now and then on the ’phone. Poor 
child! I must try to get over there tomorrow.” 

Next day Ann met Mrs. Vandecar with open arms. 

“ Oh, Fledra,” said she, “ I’ve longed for you so many 
days ! I do appreciate your coming ! ” 

“ I knew you would, Ann. You are the first acquaint- 
ance I have called on in weeks. But, honey girl, you 
don’t look well.” 

I Ann’s eyes filled with tears. Fledra Vandecar was one 
of the many bright rays of sunshine in her past life, when 
she had been happy and contented, when Everett had been 
her lover, and Horace at ease. Now her life was all chaos. 
Misery, fright, and a troubled heart were her constant 
companions. 

Mrs. Vandecar leaned over and gently brushed back a 
lock of hair from the girl’s brow. 

Ann, dear, can’t you tell me what is the matter ? ” 


Oi' THE MISSING 




“ There’s so very much, it would weary you.” 

“Indeed, no! Mayn’t I stay with you just a little 
while ” 

Ann checked back her emotion and rose. 

“ Pardon, Dear ; I didn’t dream that you could.” 

“ Of course I can. Mildred is in Albany. How happy 
I should be if I could help you I ” 

“ Time only will do that, Fledra. It will take many 
weeks before Horace and I are running in our old home 
gait. But I love to have you here, especially as Horace 
has gone out for a long drive. He will be away all the 
afternoon.” 

“That’s too bad,” interjected Mrs. Vandecar. “I 
hoped to see him. And, Ann, I want also to see those 
children.” 

“ The girl is riding with Horace today — she gets out 
so little, and Brother insisted upon taking her. The boy 
is still very ill.” 

“ Is he too ill for me to see him.^ ” 

Ann hesitated. 

“ Well, his heart is affected, and anything unusual 
throws him into a new spell. We keep all trouble from 
him.” 

Mrs. Vandecar touched her friend gently. 

“ And you’ve had enough of his to bear, poor Ann 1 ” 

“ We don’t consider it a trouble to do anything for 
those we love. I wonder if you would like to peep at 
him — making no noise, remember I He is sleeping under 
a drug. Come, Dear, and I’ll look at him first.” 

The governor’s wife followed Ann to Floyd’s door, and 
waited until a beckoning finger called her in. She entered 
the darkened chamber, and paused a moment to get her 
bearings. Miss Shellington was near the bed, her eyes 
calling. 


FROM THE VALLEY 


224 

“ He’s sound asleep,” she whispered. 

With his head thrown back a little^ Floyd’s face was 
turned toward the wall. His profile and thick black curls 
were sharply distinct upon the white pillow-slip. His 
broad brow was covered with beads of perspiration, and 
the lips were muttering incoherent words. Mrs. Vande- 
car leaned far over the bed, and peered into his face. 
Something so touched her in the thin, sunken cheeks, in 
the drawn mouth, whispering in an unnatural sleep, that 
she drew back weeping. Suddenly words formed on the 
sleeper’s lips : 

‘‘ Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” fell from them, “ look 
upon — look upon — ” Then the whisper trailed once 
more into incoherence. 

Fledra Vandecar clutched at Ann’s sleeve. 

‘‘ He’s praying, Ann ! He’s praying ! ” Miss Shelling- 
ton bowed her head in assent. “ Poor baby, poor little 
dear ! ” Mrs. Vandecar’s voice was louder than before. 

“ Hush, hush ! ” breathed Ann. “ Come away. He’s 
so very ill ! ” 

“ Pity — pity my simplicity,” murmured Floyd again, 
“ and Lord prepare my soul a — place ! ” 

Mrs. Vandecar straightened and flashed the rigid girl 
at her side an appealing glance. Ann touched her again, 
and the two women passed from the room, weeping. 

‘‘ How very beautiful he is ! ” stammered Mrs. Vande- 
car. “Oh, Ann, dear, can’t you do something for him? 
Can’t I? Why haven’t I tried before? You won’t be 
offended, will you, Ann, when I say that until this mo- 
ment I have never approved of your having him? But 
I’ve seldom seen such a face, and he was — he was pray- 
ing, poor baby ! Poor, little tormented boy \ I wish that 
he had been awake, or that his sister were here ? — I want 
to see her, too.” 


OF THE MISSING 


225 


Yes, you should see her. She is very sweet,” replied 
Ann so gravely that Mrs. Vandecar wept again. 

Very soon she made ready for home, with no hint of 
the conversation she had had with Everett, and no word 
of advice to Ann about giving up her charges. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


A LETTER went that night from Fledra Vandecar 
to her husband in Albany. It was written after 
the woman had paced her room for several hours 
in inexplicable disquietude and unrest. Puzzled, the gov- 
ernor read: 

" Dearest . — 

“ I went today to see Ann Shellington, with my mind fully 
made up to speak to her about the boy and girl who have 
been with her for these last few months. Everett was here 
to dinner last night with me, and confided in me his trouble 
with Horace, which has finally culminated in a breach with 
Ann. It seems the difficulty arose over the case of the squat- 
ter from Ithaca who has demanded his children. 

“ Everett has taken the man’s side, and until I called upon 
Ann I felt quite in sympathy with him. And still I cannot 
tell you, dearest Floyd, what changed my mind, unless it was 
the sight of that sick boy. He was sleeping when I went in, 
and was muttering over a babyish prayer, which quite touched 
me. I had no opportunity to talk with him, nor the girl 
either. She was riding with Horace, and Everett tells me 
that he (Horace) is quite infatuated with the child. 

“I’m going to ask you, Floyd darling, to help Horace all 
you can, and if Everett comes to see you, as he said he was go- 
ing to, I want you to know that it is my wish that you should 
keep to your policy with Ann and her brother. I cannot tell 
why I am writing you this, only that my heart aches for that 
boy, and that for years I have never felt so impelled to help a 
human being as I have him. 

“ I thought Everett might tell you that I was won to his 
way of thinking by his pleading how he wanted to remove 
Ann from contact with the boy and girl; so I hasten to write 

226 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING m 


you. Kiss my precious Mildred for her mother, and, Floyd, 
dear, see to it that she doesn’t stay up too late; for she is not 
strong. I cautioned Katherine about it; but I’m afraid she 
might yield to the child’s entreaties. 

“ With fondest love to you, my darling, and to my baby and 
Katherine, I am, 

** Your own loving wife, 

Fledra.” 

The governor read and reread the letter, especially the 
part in which his wife implored him to aid Horace Shelling- 
ton. He laid it down with a sigh. He well knew that 
Fledra’s heart was tender toward all little ones since the 
disappearance of her own. All hope that he would ever 
see his twin children had left him years before, and now, 
for some moments, with his hand on the envelop, his mind 
wandered into hidden places, where he saw a boy and a 
girl growing to manhood and womanhood, and he groaned 
deeply. 

Later, when Everett Brimbecomb was ushered into his 
office at the capital, the governor was primed with the 
sympathy that he had gathered from his wife’s letter. 

“ This is something of a surprise, my dear boy,” he 
said. “ I did not know you were coming to Albany so 
soon.” 

“ I came with a purpose,” replied Everett ; “ for, as 
you know, my father is away, and I need your advice in 
something.” 

Vandecar waited for his visitor to proceed. 

“ Do you see any reason,” Everett stammered, why 
two young lawyers should not be friends, even if they 
have to take opposite sides in a lawsuit ? ” 

‘‘ No,” replied the governor slowly. 

Then I’ll lay the whole thing before you, and let 
you tell me what you think of it,” 


r 


^28 FROM THE VALLEY 

Have a cigar while we talk,” broke in Vandecar, offer- 
ing Everett his case. 

In silence they began to smoke, and both remained quiet 
until the governor said: 

‘‘ Now, explain it to me, please.” 

Everett began the story of the children’s running away, 
as the squatter had told it to him, and of their coming 
to Horace. He did not forget to add that he believed 
Shellington had lied to him the night he came into the 
dining-room and discovered Fledra and Floyd with the 
two little animals. When a shade passed over the gov- 
ernor’s face, Everett quickly noted that he had made a 
mistake in the drawing of conclusions. 

Don’t be too hasty, Everett,” cautioned Vandecar, 
shaking an ash deliberately from his cigar. “ Horace is 
the soul of truth. If he did not tell it to you, he had 
good reasons.” 

Brimbecomb frowned. He could have bitten his tongue 
out for making that misstep. 

“ That’s so,” he admitted. ‘‘ But, ever since last Sep- 
tember, Horace, and I might say Ann, too, have drawn 
more and more away from me. For my part, I see no 
good that can come of their relations with squatters.” 

It was the most charitable act I have ever heard of,” 
replied Vandecar. “ But you are straying from the case. 
Do I understand that you have taken up the side of the 
father.? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And that you intend to make a move to return his 
children to him.? ” 

“ Yes.” 

« Why.? ” 

As Everett looked at the stern, unyielding man before 
him, his excuse to Mrs. Vandecar seemed tame as it ran 
through his mind. The governor’s eyes were scanning 


OE THE MISSING 


229 


him critically, almost dazzling him with their steely gray. 
An expression in the steady gaze made him tremble; but 
he took heart as he thought of the friendship between the 
governor and his foster father. 

“ It’s hardly fair to ask me why I took the case, which 
came to me in a legitimate manner,” said he. “ I can 
see no reason why the man, although poor, should not 
have his own children. Do you.^ ” 

It was a pointed question, and Vandecar waived it by 
saying : 

“ There are always circumstances surrounding these 
things, such as when parents are cruel to their children, 
which might make it advisable, almost imperative, to take 
the youngsters away and put them with reputable people. 
I think Horace is of the impression that this is true in 
the present case.” 

“ Then is one man’s opinion to be taken ? Do you ad- 
vise that.? ” 

“No; but I do not yet understand why you should 
be interested against your friends. I should think that, 
rather than disagree with them, you would wish to have 
nothing to do with it.” 

Everett would have to use Ann again to convince 
the governor of his right to act. It had been far easier 
to explain his interest in Cronk to Mrs. Vandecar than 
to this quiet, powerful man opposite. The brown-flecked 
gray eyes looked unusually sober and truth-demanding. 

“ I won’t have them any longer with Ann than I can 
help,” Everett broke forth suddenly. “ She is killing 
herself over them. Have you ever seen them, Mr. Vande- 
car.? ” 

“ No.” 

“ If you had, then you would agree with me. The fact 
is, your wife thinks the way I do, but would not help me 
because you were pledged to Horace. Your influence over 


230 


FROM THE VALLEY 


him is great, and I should like to keep this out of court, 
if possible. Mrs. Vandecar wa3 rather exercised over 
Ann.” 

^ith a deliberation that baffled Everett, the governor put 
down his cigar and drew a letter from his pocket. He 
opened it in silence and glanced at it, while Everett stared 
uneasily at this unusual proceeding. Presently the gov- 
ernor looked up casually. 

“ You say that my wife is exercised over Ann.^ ” 

“ So she told me. She — ” 

“ Well, just at this time,” interjected Vandecar, “ Mrs. 
Vandecar is very much in sympathy with the boy. She 
has seen him, since talking with you.” Everett stood up 
abruptly. “ She has changed her mind; so her letter 
tells me, Brimbecomb,” went on the elder man, “ and, as 
I am working with Horace, and this thing touches him so 
deeply, I shall have to ask you not to come to me for ad- 
vice or help. You understand,” and the governor rose 
also, ‘‘ that, while I have a deep feeling of interest in you 
and your work, I must say that I think it would be better 
taste for you to withdraw while you can. It will be un- 
pleasant all around, and, as your father is away, it is 
rather dangerous to connect your office with low people.” 

Everett went forth from the interview discomfited, but 
none the less firm in his evil purpose. Only a few days 
later, when Lem Crabbe’s scow was slowly making its way 
from Ithaca to Tarrytown, habeas corpus papers were 
served upon Horace Shellington to produce the twins in 
court and to give reasons why they should not be given 
to their father. 

Horace held a consultation with Ann, and it was decided 
that they should appeal to the court for time, procuring 
a doctor’s certificate to prove that Floyd was too ill even ? 
to know of the proceedings. This having been done. Hi 


OF THE MISSING 


231 


placed an unlooked-for stay upon Everett Brimbecomb; 
but he secured a court order instructing the sheriff to 
guard the children at the Shellington home imtil the boy 
was well enough to be taken out. So, a deputy was sta- 
tioned in the house. 

In the meantime Lon watched eagerly for the coming 
of Lem. When at last he espied the scow fastened in its 
accustomed place, he went down to carry the news to the 
owner. After explaining the matter as far as it had gone, 
he ventured: 

“ Lem, be ye carin’ for Flea yet.^* ” 

“ Why ? ” demanded Lem suspiciously. 

“ ’Cause we can make some money outen her, if ye gives 
up yer claim on her.” 

“ Ye mean to seU her.? ” 

Lem’s words sounded hoarse as he wheezed them out. 

“ ’Tain’t sellin’ her,” explained Lon. “ A whoUopin’ 
good-lookin’ feller wants her, and he says he’ll buy yer off 
and give me money fer her. Will ye do it, Lem.? ” 

“Nope, I won’t! I want her myself. I been waiting 
long ’nough fer her.” 

“ But wouldn’t ye ruther have a pocketful of money ? 
I would, I bet ye 1 ” 

“Lon, be ye goin’ to do me dirt.? ” asked Lem darkly. 

Lon straightened his shoulders. 

“ Nope, I told him ye had to be buyed off, afore I could 
say nothin’. But I thought ye hked money, Lem.” 

“ So I do ; but I like Flea better. I helped ye get ’em 
when they were babies, Lon, and ye said — ” 

Cronk flung out his arms. 

“ I said as how ye wasn’t to mention aloud, even to me, 
that the kids wasn’t mine. Ye has Flea, if ye say so, 
^,nd I’ll tell the lawyer — ” 

“ Be it that good-lookin’ feller what ye give the fifty 


232 


FROM THE VALLEY 


dollars to what wants Flea ? ” Cronk nodded. I 
thought ye wouldn’t let me marry her,” Lem cried, “ and 
now ye be goin’ — ” 

L(»i interrupted the scowman fiercely : 

“ Nuther is he goin’ to marry her — ye can bet on that ! 
No kid of Vandecar’s gets a boost up from me — a boost 
down, more like ! ” 

“ I’ll kill the feller if he touches her,” growled Lem, 
“ and ye can make up yer mind to that, Lon ! ” 

Lon Cronk shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 

“ Take her if ye want her, Lem. I won’t put no straw 
in yer way. But I never could see what ye wanted her 
fer. She’s a big mouth to feed, let me tell ye! ” 

For some moments the two men sat in the darkening 
scow and smoked in silence. Suddenly Lem looked up. 

‘‘We couldn’t get ahead of the nasty scamp, could we, 
Lon.^ I mean, could we git the money, and then keep the 
gal ? ” 

“ I don’t want her,” growled Lon ; “ she couldn’t stay 
with me no more.” 

“We oughter make him pay the money, though,” 
Lem insisted. 

“ Then, if ye has Flea, Lem,” said Lon, looking keenly 
at the scowman, “ and ye git yer share of money, ye has to 
share up yer half with me. See.?^ ” 

“ Yep,” muttered Lem. “ Will ye bring the feller down 
here some day, and we’ll talk it over ? ” 

Lon acquiesced by a nod of his head, saying only, 
“ Come on out, and let’s get a drink.” 

“ When’s he goin’ to git ’em — Flea and Flukey, I 
mean ? ” 

“ I dunno. The boy’s too sick to come to court. He’s 
liable to die any minute.” 

Lem started forward at the unexpected word. 

“ If he croaks, be ye goin’ to leave Flea there ? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


23S 


“ Not by a damn sight ! We’ll git her, and I don’t care 
if the boy goes dead afore mornin’. I only want him to 
suffer, and die if he wants to. And, Lem,” Lon smiled 
evilly, and, looking into the swart face of his pal, said, 
“ and I guess ye can make the gal come to yer likin’.” 

Lem’s throat worked visibly, his face reddened by the 
silent laughter that shook him. 

‘‘ I only want the chance,” he said. Come on and 
let’s git a drink.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


E verett BRIMBECOMB had become impatient. 
He missed his evenings with Ann, and was tortured 
with the thought that Horace was with Eledra. 
Every day made his hatred for his former friend more 
deadly, more vindictive, and he not only desired to take 
the squatter girl away, but he felt impelled to separate 
Ann from her brother. He received a badly spelled note 
from Lon with a feeling of thanksgiving. Something had 
happened to make the squatter wish to see him. So, after 
dinner, he took the direction Lon had given, and reached 
the scow in a heavy rain. It was much more to his liking 
that the evening should be stormy; for no person of his 
own station in life would be apt to be abroad on such a ; 
night. 

As he entered the living-room of the scow, Everett bowed 
frigidly to Lem Crabbe, and forgot to extend his hand to 
Lon. 

“ You sent for me,” he said in a low tone, looking at 
the squatter. 

j “ Yep. I knowed ye wanted to see Lem, and I thought 
as how ye’d ruther come here than have him come along > 
to yer office. Ain’t that right ? ” 

“ I believe I told you so,” responded Everett coldly, as 
he took his place in a rickety chair. 

“Ye said, didn’t ye. Mister, that ye wanted the handlin’ 
of Flea after we took her away from that meddlin’ mil- 
lionaire.^ ” 

“ Yes.” ] 

“ And I telled ye that ye had to make a bargain with J 

234} I 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 235 


Lem, ’cause he had first right to her. What ye willin’ to 
give.? ” 

“ How much money do you want to withdraw your claim 
from the girl.? ” 

“ I ain’t thought ’bout no price,” replied Lem covertly. 

“ Then think and listen to me. I have an idea in my ^ 
mind that we can take the girl away from that house, 
if not tomorrow, at least in a few days.” 

Lem’s eyes glistened, and Lon placed his clay pipe care- 
fully upon the table. 

“ Lip it out, then. Mister,” said the latter ; “ and, if 
me and Lem’s agreein’ with ye, then we’ll help ye.” 

Everett moved uneasily in the creaking chair. He did 
not desire to dicker with these ruffians; but it was neces- 
sary, if he wished to carry out his plans concerning Fledra. 

‘‘ The boy is likely to die any moment. The girl is the 
only one who can help you, Mr. Cronk.” Everett had 
meaning in his voice, and his words made Lem swallow 
hard. 

“ I was a thinkin’ that myself,” ruminated Lon. 

“ The girl idolizes her brother and Mr. Shellington. 
If you could make her understand that they would other- 
wise both be killed through your instrumentality, she would 
leave the house of her own free will, I’m sure.” 

Lon, grimacing with delight, bounded up and faced Lem. 

‘‘ That be so ! That comes of gittin’ a lawyer what’s 
got stuff in his head, ye see, Lem. I told ye that when 
ye said as how we could get them kids without spendin’ 
no money.” 

“ You will have to use great care, both of you,” Everett 
urged, ‘‘ and it only means for you to take the girl, as 
you first planned, to Ithaca; and I will come after her. 
You will both have your money, and our business together 
will be at an end.” Lem laughed, but with no sound. 
“ Just how to get this girl is more than I have figured 


236 


FROM THE VALLEY 


out,” Everett continued ; ‘‘ but it might be well for me to 
try and get a letter to her. I have been a steady visitor 
at Shellington’s home for many years. We are hardly 
upon good terms now ; but I could manage it, if one of you 
men would write it. Make the letter strong, and you will 
gain your ends. You may bring it to my office tomorrow, 
Mr. Cronk.” He rose, buttoned up his raincoat, and went 
out, leaving two gaping men looking after him. 

Since the papers had been served upon him, Horace had 
had no peace of mind. The solemn deputy loitering about 
the home menaced the whole future. It sickened him when 
he forced his imagination to dwell upon Fledra’s future, 
if she were dragged back to Ithaca, and he had rather 
place Floyd in his grave than give him into the hands of 
the squatter. Suddenly, one morning, he took a great 
resolution, and no sooner had he made up his mind to take 
the one step that would change his whole life than he called 
Ann to tell her about it. 

“ Fm going to marry Fledra,” he said, catching his 
breath. 

Ann dropped her hands fearfully; but intense interest 
gathered on her face. 

“ I can save her no other way,” he went on, almost in 
excuse, noting her glance. ‘‘ And you must have seen, 
Ann, dear, that I love the child. Sit down here and let 
me tell you about it.” i 

He began at the beginning, telling her of his early grow- I 
ing love, of his desire to make the squatter child his wife. 1 
Ann allowed him to narrate his story impulsively, without i 
interruption. j 

Then she said gently: j 

“ Horace, dear, have you told her that you love her ? ” 

“ Yes ; but I am going to tell her again this morning.” | 
“ Ask her now,” suggested* Ann eagerly, and she rose. 


OF THE MISSING 


Horace found Fledra with Floyd, and she lifted her eyes 
confidingly to his with a smile. For a long time he had 
been so tender, so loving, that the specter bred and fostered 
by Everett Brimbecomb’s kisses had nearly vanished. 

“ Floyd is so much better this morning ! ” she said. 
Her words were well chosen, and she pronounced her broth- 
er’s new name carefully. 

Floyd held out his hand and raised himself slowly up. 

‘‘ Look, Brother Horace ! ” he cried eagerly. “ Look — 
just this morning I’ve been able to stand up! Sister Ann 
says in a few days I can walk.” 

Horace held the thin, white fingers in his for an instant. 

“ So you will, boy. It won’t be long before you can 
get out.” 

The words startled Fledra. Not until the trouble of 
Lon’s coming had she wished that Floyd might linger in 
the sickroom. The man outside, watching every move- 
ment in the house, frightened her. She knew that when 
her brother was well enough he and she would be called 
away for the court’s decision as to their future. 

“ Floyd, will you spare your sister just a few moments.? 
I want to talk with her.” 

“ Course I will. Brother Horace. Scoot along, Fledra ! ” 

‘‘ This way, child,” whispered Horace. “ I’ve some- 
thing ^ — ' oh, such a dear something ! — to say to you.” 

They quietly passed the deputy, who only raised his 
eyes, smiled at Fledra, and dropped his gaze again to his 
paper. When Horace’s door was closed, Horace took 
Fledra into his embrace and kissed her again and again. 
She loved the warmth of his arms, and the delight of his 
kisses caused her to rest unresisting until he chose to speak. 

‘‘Fledra, dear, will you marry me — immediately.?” 

His question brought her to rigidity. 

“ You mean — ” 

“ I mean that all our troubles are going away.” 


238 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Fledra drew slowly from him. 

How can our troubles go away.? ” she asked. 

‘‘ By your consenting.” 

“ I told you once, and more than once, that I couldn’t 
tell you. .Won’t you ever understand.? ” 

But Horace did not loosen his hold upon her. He drew 
the dark head against him tenderly. 

“ You misunderstood, Fledra. I am going to trust you 
in everything. I am going to put all my faith in you, 
and to save you and your brother from a fearful life. I 
must make you my wife! ” 

Fledra drew a long breath. All the stumbling petitions 
she had made to Heaven were answered by those few words. 
At last, to be Horace’s wife, to save Flukey, and to protect 
Ann, who would now have back her lover ! It seemed to 
the young girl, in this flashing moment of thought, that 
all the clouds of the last few months had floated over their 
heads and away. 

‘‘ It will take a few days before I can arrange our mar- 
riage,” explained Horace. “ One reason for not arrang- 
ing today is that I have to run down to New York for two 
or three days ; and then, too, I must be careful not to let 
anyone know of our plans. I want you to talk with my 
sister. I have told her that I love you.” 

“ Was she sorry.? ” whispered Fledra. 

“No — very, very glad I ” 

“ And can I tell Floyd.? ” 

“ Yes, just as soon as you like. I have an idea your 
happiness will go far to make him well.” 

For an hour Horace refused to let her leave him, and 
when Fledra did go back to the sick brother her face was 
radiant with happiness. Floyd was not prepared for the 
rush of words or the passionate appeal with which she met 
him. - 

% 


OF THE MISSING 


239 


Blinking his eyes, the boy waved his sister back. 

“ I can’t make out what you’re saying, Flea.” 

“ I’m going to marry Brother Horace ! ” She stopped, 
and began again. “ I’m going to marry Horace — oh, so 
soon. Fluke! And aren’t you glad.^ And then they can’t 
take us away ! ” 

It was the first intimation Floyd had had of their danger. 
He rose up, standing upon his legs tremblingly. 

“ Has anybody been trying to take us away. Flea ? ” 

Then Fledra realized what she had said, and hesitated 
in fear. 

“ I forgot you weren’t to know, Fluke. Will you wait 
till I call Brother Horace? . . . Fluke, don’t be 

trembling like that ! Sit down. Fluke ! . . . Fluke ! ” 

Floyd’s face had paled, even to the tips of his ears. He 
realized now that danger had hung over the fair young 
sister and he had not known of it. 

“ It’s Pappy Lon, and ye never told me, Flea, and 
that’s why ye been so unhappy! He’ll take ye away be- 
cause yer his kid, and Brother Horace can’t do any- 
thing.” 

Yes, he can. Fluke rr— yes, he can ! He loves me, and 
I love him, and he’s going to marry me! Nobody can’t 
take a wife away from her man! . . . Fluke, don’t 

wabble like that ! Brother Horace ! Brother Horace ! ” 

Fledra’s voice reached the dreaming man, bending over 
his desk, and he bounded to answer her call. He found 
her supporting her brother, white and shivering, with eyes 
strained by fright. 

“ I told him,” gasped Fledra looking up ; “ but I didn’t 
mean to.” 

“ Told him what? ” 

“ Pappy Lon,” muttered Floyd, cornin’ for Flea ! ” 

Horace caught the words in dismay. 

He placed the suffering boy on the divan and bent 


240 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


close. In low tones he said that the squatter in some mys- 
terious way had found where they were, and that he had 
come for them. He began at the beginning, explaining 
to the boy Lon’s demand upon him. He refrained, how- 
ever, from mentioning Everett, because of the pain to his 
sister. He had just finished the story, when Ann softly 
opened the door and came in. 

“ But I insist that you will place your faith in me, 
Floyd. I shall see to it that neither you nor your sister 
leave me — unless you go of your own free will,” Horace 
concluded. 

“ If Pappy Lon takes one of us,” muttered Floyd, as 
Miss Shellington calmed him with sweet interest, “ let him 
take me. I’m as good as dead, anyhow. I want Flea to 
marry Brother Horace.” 

“ And so she will,” assured Ann. “ Now then. Dear, 
try and sleep.” 

During the rest of the afternoon Ann held conferences 
with her brother, fluttering back and forth from him to 
Floyd, and then to Fledra. She notr-d that the strained 
expression had gone from the girl’s face, and uttered a little 
prayer of thanksgiving when she heard Horace’s hearty 
laugh ring out once more. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


E verett BRIMBECOMB took the letter Lon 
Cronk handed him, without rising from his chair. 
“ It be for Flea,” said Lon, grinning, “ and I 
think she’ll understand it. It’s as plain as that nose on 
yer face. Mister.” 

“May I read it.?” asked the lawyer indifferently. 
Then, as Lon nodded, he slipped the letter deftly from the 
finger-marked envelop and read the contents with a smile. 
“ It’s strong enough,” he said, replacing it. “ I, too, 
think she’ll succumb to that. If you’ll leave this letter 
with me. I’ll see that she gets it.” 

Everett put the envelop in a drawer and implied that 
the interview was at an end. But the squatter twirled his 
cap in his fingers and lingered. 

“ Lem says as how he’ll take the gal and me in his scow 
to Ithaca. Ye can follow us when ye git ready.” 

The younger man stood up, nodding his approval. 

“ That’ll be just the way to do it, and I shall look to 
you, Mr. Cronk, to keep faith with me. Frankly speak- 
ing, I do not like your friend. I think he’s a rascal.” 

“ Well, he be a mean cuss ; but there be other cusses 


besides Lem, Mister.” 

Brimbecpmb flushed at the meaning glance in the squat- 
ter’s shrewd eyes. 

“ All you both have to do,” said he bruskly, “ is to 
spend the money I’ll give you ^ and keep your mouths 
shut.” 

If Everett had noted the crafty expression on the 
squatter’s face as the latter walked down the street, he 
^41 


242 


FROM THE VALLEY 


would not have been so satisfied over his deal with Lon. 
After he was alone, he reread Cronk’s letter. Later he 
wrote steadily for sometime. His communication also was 
for Fledra, and he intended by hook or crook to get it to 
her with the other. 

\ There never had been greater rejoicing in the Shelling- 
ton home than on the night when it was settled that Fledra 
was to marry Horace. It was decided that after the wed- 
ding the girl should have tutors and professors. A love- 
light had appeared in the gray eyes when she promised 
Ann that she would study diligently until Horace and 
Floyd and all her dear ones would be proud of her ad- 
vancement. How gently Ann encircled the little figure 
before she said goodnight, and how tearfully she con- 
gratulated Horace that he had won such a fond, faithful 
heart for his own ! Even after kissing Floyd, and tucking 
the coverlet about his shoulders, the young woman was 
again drawn to Fledra. 

“ May I come in. Darling.? ” she whispered. 

Fledra did not cease combing her curls before the mirror 
when she welcomed Miss Shellington. 

“ I simply couldn’t go to bed, child,” said Ann, “ until 
I came to see you again. I feel so little like sleeping ! ” 

Fledra turned a blushing, happy face upon her friend. 

“ And I’m not going to sleep tonight, either. I’m go- 
ing to stay awake all night and be glad.” 

This brought Ann’s unhappiness back to her, and she 
smiled sadly as she thought of her own tangled love-affair. 

I want you and my brother to be very happy.” 

Fledra dropped her comb and looked soberly at the 
other. 

“ I’m not good enough for him,” she said, with a sigh; 
“ but he loves me, and I love him more than the whole 
world put together. Sister Ann,” 


OF THE MISSING 


243 


The young face had grown radiant with idealized love 
and faith, and through the shining gray eyes, in which bits 
of brown shaded to golden, Ann could see the girl’s soul, 
pure and lofty. She marked how it had grown, had ex- 
panded, under great love, and marveled. 

“ I know that. Dearest. I wish I were as happy as 
you ! ” 

The pathos in her tones, the sad lines about Ann’s sweet 
mouth, made Fledra grasp her hands in girlish impetuous- 
ness. 

“ He’ll come back to you. Sister Ann, some day,” she 
breathed. He thinks Pappy Lon ought to have us kids, 
and that’s what makes him work against you and Brother 
Horace. He can’t stay away from you long.” 

Ann shook her head mournfully. 

I fear he doesn’t love me, Fledra, or he couldn’t have 
done as he has. Sometimes it seems as if I must send for 
him; for he isn’t bad at heart.” She rested her eyes on 
Fledra’s face imploringly. You think, don’t you. Dear, 
that when a woman loves a man as I love him her love 
in the end will help him ? ” 

Fledra thought of her own mad affection for Horace, 
of his love for her, and of how her longing for him stirred 
the very depths of her soul, uplifting and refreshing it. 
She nodded her head. 

He’ll come back to her, all right,” she murmured after 
Ann had gone and she had thrown herself on the bed. 
“ Floyd will get well, and Horace and I — ” She dropped 
asleep, and the morning had fully dawned before she 
opened her eyes to another day. 

Then, as Fledra sat up in bed, brushed back the curls 
from her face, and with the eagerness of a child thought 
over the happy yesterday, suddenly her eyes fell upon an 
envelop, lying an the carpet just beneath her window. It 


FROM THE VALLEY 


had not been there the night before. She slipped to the 
floor, picked up the sealed letter with her name on it, 
and climbed into bed again, while examining it closely. 
iWith a mystified expression upon her face, she tore open 
the envelop. Unfolding one of the two letters, inclosed, 
she read : 

Flea Cronh , — 

This is to tell ye that if ye don’t come back witK me and 
Lem, we’ll kill that guy Shellington and Flukey. Flukey can 
stay there if he wants to, if you come. Make up yer mind, 
and don’t ye tell any man that I writ this letter. Come to 
Lem’s scow in the river, or ye know what I does to Flukey. 

Lon Cronk.” 

Fledra folded up the letter and opened the other one 
dazedly. It was written with a masterly pen-stroke, and 
the girl, without reading it, looked at the signature. It 
was signed, “ Everett Brimbecomb^” Her eyes flashed 
back to the beginning, and she read it through swiftly: 

" Little Miss Vronk * — 

I am delivering this letter in a peculiar way, because I 
know that you had rather not have anyone see it. It is 
necessary that you should think calmly and seriously over 
the question I am going to ask you. I am very fond of you. 
Whether or not you will return my affection is a thing for 
you to decide in the future. Now, then, the question is. Do 
you want to protect your brother and your friends from the 
anger of your father.^ If so, you must go with him. I will 
answer for it that your brother stays where he is; but you 
must go away. .Think well before you decide not to go; for 
I know the men who are determined to have you, and would 
save you if I could. I shall try to see you very soon. Destroy 
this letter immediately. Your friend, 

“ Everett Brimbecomb.” 


OF THE MISSING 


Fledra sat as if in a trance, her eyelids drooping over 
almost sightless eyes. The last blow had fallen upon her, 
and she knew that she must go. That she could ever be 
forced away thus without her brother, that Horace could 
be given no chance to help her, had never crossed her 
mind. Through her imagination drifted Lon’s dark, cruel 
face, followed by a vision of Lem Crabbe. Feature after 
feature of the scowman came vividly to her, — the wind-red- 
dened skin, the foul, tobacco-browned lips, the twitching 
goiter, — all added to the nervous chill that had suddenly 
come upon the girl. Lem and Lon represented all the 
world’s evil to her, and Everett Brimbecomb all the world’s 
influence. The three had thrust their triple strength be- 
tween her and happiness. Her dear ones should not fall 
before the wrath of Lem and Lon, or before the unsur- 
mountable power of Everett Brimbecomb! In her hands 
alone lay their salvation. Like one stunned, she rose from 
the bed and carefully destroyed the two letters. This 
was the one command she would obey promptly. 

When Ann knocked softly at the door, and no answer 
came, she gently pushed it open. Fledra lay with her 
face to the wall as if asleep. Miss Shellington bent over 
her, and then crept quietly out to allow the girl to rest 
another hour. No sooner had the door closed than 
Fledra sat up with clenched fists, her face blanched with 
terror. She could not confront the inevitable without 
help. But not once did it occur to her that Horace Shel- 
lington would be able to protect not only her, but himself 
also. The path of her future life stretched from Tarry- 
town to Ithaca, straight into Lem’s scow I 

Through the entire day the girl was enigmatical both 
to Horace and to Ann. Weary hours, crowding one upon 
another, offered her no relief. The thought of Lon’s let- 


FROM THE VALLEY 


^46 

ter shattered hope and made her desolate. She did not 
stop to reason that her relations with Horace demanded 
that she tell him of Everett’s perfidy. Had not her loved 
ones been threatened with death, if she disclosed having 
received the letters? She spent most of the day with 
Floyd, saying but little. 

In the evening Fledra waited wide-eyed and sleepless 
until the household was quiet, and while she waited she 
pondered dully upon a plan to escape. Toward night 
two faint hopes had taken possession of her: Everett 
Brimbecomb could help her; Pappy Lon might. Before 
leaving Floyd and severing her connections with Horace, 
she would appeal to the squatter and his lawyer. She 
opened the window and looked out. It was but a short 
drop to the path at the side of the house. 

At half-past ten Fledra slipped into her coat and set 
a soft, light cap upon her black curls. In another min- 
ute she had reached the road and had turned toward 
Brimbecomb’s. To escape any eyes in the house she had 
just left, she scurried to the graveyard. For an instant 
only did she halt, and, somber-eyed, glance over the graves. 
She could easily mark the spot where she had lain so long 
with Floyd, and tears welled into her eyes as she thought 
of him. How many things had happened since then ! In 
hasty review came week after week of the time she had 
spent with Horace and Ann. How she loved them both! 
Turning, she scanned the gloomy Brimbecomb house. In 
the servants’ quarters at the top several lights burned, 
while on the drawing-room floor a gas-jet shot forth its 
beams into Sleepy Hollow. If Mr. Brimbecomb were at 
home, then he must be in that room. Fledra crouched 
under the window. 

“ Mr. Brimbecomb ! Mr. Brimbecomb ! ” she called. 

Silence, as dense as that in God’s Acre near her, reigned 
in the house. She called again, a little louder. Suddenly 


OF THE MISSING 


she heard a rapid step upon the road and crept back again 
to the comer of the building. 

Everett Brimbecomb was passing under the arc light, 
and Eledra could see his handsome face plainly in its 
rays. 

He stopped a moment and looked at Shellington’s house, 
with a shrug of his shoulders. Again he resumed his way ; 
but halted as Eledra called his name softly. Erom her 
hiding-place in the shadow of the porch she came slowly 
forward. 

‘‘ Can I talk with you a few moments, Mr. Brimbe- 
comb ? ” she faltered. I know that you can help me, if 
you will.” 

Everett’s heart began to beat furiously. Something in 
the appealing girl attacked him as nothing else had. 
How slim she looked, how lithe and graceful, and yet so 
childishly young! He compared her with Ann in rapid 
thought, and remembered that he had never felt toward 
Horace’s sister as he did toward this obscure girl. 

“ Come in,” he murmured ; “ we can’t talk here. Come in.” 

Let me tell you out here in the night,” stammered 
Eledra. 

Everett touched her arm, urging her forward. 

“ They may see us from the Shellingtons’,” he said; and, 
in spite of her unwillingness, he forced her up the steps. 
Like the wind of a hurricane, a mixture of emotions 
stormed in his soul. He dared not do as he wished and 
take the girl in his arms. He checked his desire to force 
his love upon her, and motioned to a chair, into which 
Eledra sank. Like shining ebony, her black hair framed 
a death-pale face. The darkness of a new grief had deep- 
ened the shade in the mysterious eyes. Eor an instant 
she paused on the edge of tears. 

“ I don’t want to go back with Pappy Lon ! ” she whis- 
pered. 


248 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Everett caught his breath. She was even more lovely 
than he had remembered. Inwardly he cursed the squat- 
ters. If he could eliminate them from his plans — but 
they were necessary to him. 

“I don’t like none o’ the bunch of ye!” Fledra burst 
out in his silence. Brimbecomb’s lips formed a slight 
smile. The girl pondered a moment, and continued 
fiercely, ‘‘ And I hate Ithaca and all the squatters ! ” 

“ You speak very much like your father,” ventured the 
lawyer. “ I can’t understand why you hate him. Your 
place is with him.” 

The girl bowed her head and wept softly. She real- 
ized that when she was excited she could not remember 
her English. 

“ I’ve been a squatter,” she said, forlornly shaking her 
head, “ and I s’pose Pappy Lon has a right to me ; but I 
love — ” 

You love whom ? ” 

‘‘ Mr. Shellington. Oh, Mr. Brimbecomb, can’t ye help 
me to keep away from Pappy Lon.? Can’t ye make him 
see that I don’t want to go back — that I can’t go back 
to Lem Crabbe ever.?” 

‘‘ There’s no danger of your going to — what did you 
say his name was .? ” 

‘‘ Lem Crabbe — the man with a hook on his arm. I 
hate him so ! ” 

“ I remember seeing him once. I don’t think you need | 
worry over going with him. Your father is not a fool.” | 

“ He promised me to Lem ! ” wailed Flea. 

‘‘ And he — promised — you to — me ! ” 

So deliberately did Everett speak that Fledra was on 
her feet before the sentence was finished. Horror, deep- 
seated, rested in the eyes raised to his. Oh, surely she 
had not heard aright ! 


OF THE MISSING 


249 


What did ye say? ” she demanded. 

Your father has promised you to me.’^ 

“Oh, that’s why you done it, was it? That’s why ye 
fit Sister Ann and Brother Horace? ’Cause ye wanted 
me to go with ye ! I hate ye like I hate — the devil ! ” 

Her words, grossly coarse, struck and stung the man 
to action. He strode forward and grasped her arm 
roughly in his fingers. 

“ You little fury, what do I care how much you hate 
me? It’s a man’s pleasure to conquer a woman like you. 
You can have your choice between the other man and 
me.” 

Dumb with fright and amazement, his treachery driving 
every thought from her mind for the moment, Fledra 
looked at him. 

“ I’d rather go with Lem,” she got out at last, “ ’cause 
I couldn’t stand yer hellish pretty face nor yer white teeth. 
They look like them big stones standing over the dead 
men out yonder.” 

With a backward motion of her head toward the win- 
dow, Fledra drawled out the last words insultingly. 
That she preferred Lem to him wounded Everett’s pride, 
but made him desire her the more. He loved her just then 
so much that, if it had been in his power, he would have 
married her instantly. Her fine-fibered spirit attracted all 
the evil in him as a magnet draws a needle. Fledra 
brought him from his reverie. 

“ There ain’t no use of my standin’ here any longer,” 
she said. “ I might as well go and ask Pappy Lon. He’s 
better’n you.” 

To let her go this way seemed intolerable. 

“Wait,” he commanded, “wait! When you came in, 

I didn’t mean to offend you. Will you wait? ” 

“ If ye’ll help me keep away from Pappy Lon, and will 


^50 


FROM THE VALLEY 


promise nothin’ will happen to Brother Horace or to 
Fluke.” 

“ I can’t do that ; it’s impossible. But I can take you 
away, after you get back to Ithac^.” 

Can I come back to Brother Horace? ” 

“ No, no ; you can’t go there again ! Now, listen, 
Fledra Cronk. I’ll marry you as soon as you’ll let 
me.” 

Fledra’s eyelids quivered. 

“I’ll stay with Pappy Lon and Lem, because I love 
Sister Ann too well to go with you.” 

“ Oh, I thought that was the reason,” said Everett. 
“ All your hard words to me were from your tender, grate- 
ful heart. That only makes me like you the better.” 

Fledra turned to go. 

“ But I don’t like you, and I never will. Let me go now, 
because I’m goin’ down to the scow to Pappy Lon.” 

Brimbecomb threw out an arm with an impetuous 
swing; but Fledra darted under it. 

“ Don’t — don’t ! ” she cried brokenly. “ Don’t you 
never touch me, never-never! I don’t want you to! 
Let me go now, please.” 

Everett stepped aside and allowed her to reach the door. 

“ I shall help you, if I can, child,” he put in, as she 
sprang out. “ Remember ^ — ” 

But Fledra did not wait to hear. She was outside the 
door and flying down the steps. 

The wind came sharply from the north as, dejectedly, 
the girl made her way to the river. She had decided to 
appeal to Lon, to beg her future of him. Before she 
reached the scow, she could hear the gurgle of the river, and 
the sound of the water came familiarly to her ears. Lem’s 
boat lay like a silent, black animal near the bank, and she 
came to a stop at sight of it. How many times had she 


OF THE MISSING 


^51 


seen the dark boat snuggled in the gloom as she saw it 
now! How many times before had the candle twinkled 
from the small window, and the sign of life caused her to 
shiver in fear! But, thinking of what Lon’s consent for 
her to remain with her dear ones meant, she mounted the 
gangplank and descended the short flight of stairs. 

Lon was seated in a chair by the table, and Lem on a 
stool nearby. Crabbe rose as the pale girl appeared be- 
fore him; but Lon only displayed two rows of dark teeth. 
It seemed to him that all his waiting was over; that his 
wife’s constant haunting of his strong spirit would cease, 
if he could tear the girl from her high estate and watch 
the small head bend under the indignities Lem would place 
upon her. The very fact that she had come when he had 
sent for her showed the fear in which she held him. 

Fledra unloosened her wrap from her throat as if it 
choked her. 

“How d’y’ do. Flea?” grinned Cronk. His delight 
was like that of a small boy who has captured a bright- 
winged butterfly in a net. 

“ I got yer letter. Pappy Lon,” said Fledra, overlook- 
ing his impudent manner. 

“ And ye goin’ to stay, ain’t ye? ” gurgled Lem. 

Fledra snapped out “Nope!” to the scowman’s ques- 
tion, without looking at him. Her next words were di-' 
rected to the squatter: 

“ I’ve come to beg ye. Pappy Lon, to let me stay in 
Tarrytown. Mr. Shellington wants to marry me.” 

She was so frail, so girlishly sweet and desirable, that 
Lem uttered an oath. But Lon gestured a command of 
silence. 

“Ye can’t marry no man yit, Flea,” said he. “ Ye has 
to go back to the hut.” Determination rang in his words, 
and the face of the rigid girl paled, and she caught at the 
table for support. “ Ye see,” went on Lon, “ a kid can’t 


FROM THE VALLEY 


do a thing her pappy says she can’t. I says yer to come 
home to the shanty. And, if ye don’t, then I’ll do what 
I said I would. I’ll kill that dude Shellington and — ” 

Before he could finish, Fledra burst in upon him. 

“Ye mustn’t! Ye mustn’t. Pappy Lon! I love him 
so! And he’s so good! And poor little Flukey is so 
sick, though he’s gettin’ better, and if I’m happy, then he’ll 
get well ! Don’t ye love us one little bit. Pappy Lon ? ” 
She loosened her hold upon the table and neared the squat- 
ter. 

Cronk brushed his face awkwardly. The presence of 
his Midge filled the scow-room, and his dead baby, wee 
and well beloved, goaded him to complete his vengeance. 
For a few seconds he breathed hard, with difficulty chok- 
ing down sobs that shook his whole body. In a haze, the 
ghost-woman wavered toward him through the long, bitter 
years he had lived without her. She thrust herself between 
him and Fledra. The image that his heated brain had 
drawn up held out a tiny spirit babe, and so real was the 
apparition that he put out a trembling hand. For a mo- 
ment he groped blindly for something tangible in the 
nothingness before him. Then, with a groan, he let his 
arm fall nerveless to his side. The vision disappeared, i 
and Lem’s presence and even Fledra’s faded; for Lon i 
again felt the agonizing cracking of his bones under the i 
prison strait- jacket, and could hear himself shrieking. 

He started up and wiped drops of water from his face. 
He glared at Fledra, his decision remaining steadfast 
within him. Only exquisite torture for Vandecar’s flesh 
and blood would appease the wrath of Midge and the pale- 
faced child. 

“ I love ye well enough to want ye to do my will,” he 
brought out huskily, “ and when Flukey gits well he’ll 
come with me, too.” 

Fledra braced herself for the ordeal. Lon had prom- I 


OF THE MISSING 


253 


ised her in his letter that sacrificing herself would mean 
safety for Floyd and her lover. She would not allow 
liim to break that promise, however much he demanded of 
her. 

Cronk spoke again : 

‘‘ Ye’d better take off yer things and set down, Flea, 
’cause ye ain’t goin’ back.” 

She made no move to obey him. 

“ Yes, I’m goin’ back to Flukey,” she said, even if you 
make me come here again. I haven’t left any letter for 
him. But I’ll come back to the scow, and go with you 
and Lem, if you let Fluke stay with Mr. Shellington. If 
you take him, you don’t get me.” 

“ How ye goin’ to help yerself ” Lon questioned, with 
a belittling sneer. 

‘‘ When I get hold of ye,” put in Lem, ‘‘ ye’ll want to 
stay.” 

The squatter again motioned the scowman to silence. 
A fear, almost a respect, for this girl, with her solemn gray 
eyes and unbending manner, dressed like the people he 
hated, took root within him. 

Fledra’s next address to Lon ignored Lem’s growling 
threat. 

‘‘ I didn’t come to fight with you, Pappy Lon. But 
you’ve got to let me go back and write a letter. I won’t 
tell anybody that I’m goin’ from home. Mr. Shellington’s 
going to New York tomorrow, to stay four or five days. 
That’ll give me a chance to get away, and I’ll come to you 
again tomorrow night. But I’ll go with you only when 
you say that Fluke can stay where he is. Do you hear, 
Pappy Lon.?” 

Her face expressed such commanding hauteur, she 
looked so like Floyd Vandecar when she threw up her 
head defiantly, that Cronk’s big chest heaved with satis- 
faction. To take his grudge out upon her would be 


FROM THE VALLEY 


254i 

enough. He would cause her to suffer even more than 
had Midge. He waited for a few moments, with his eyes 
fastened upon her face, before he spoke. He remembered 
that she had never told him a lie nor broken a promise. 

“Ye swear that, if I let ye go now, ye’ll come back 
tomorry night ? ” 

“ Yes, I swear it, if you’ll swear that you’ll let Fluke 
alone, and that you won’t ever hurt Mr. Shellington. 
Do you swear it ? ” Her voice was toned with a desperate 
passion, and she bent toward the squatter in command. 

“ I swear it,” muttered Lon. 

“And can I bring Snatchet with me.^ I want him be- 
cause he’s Flukey’s, and because he’ll love me. Can I, 
Pappy l,on? ” 

“ Yep, damn it! ye can. Bring all the dogs in Tarry- 
town ; but be back tomorry night.” 

“ I’ll come, all right ; but I’m goin’ now.” 

As the girl turned to go, Lem lumbered to his feet. 

“ I’ve got somethin’ to say about this ! ” he stuttered. 

“ Sit down, Lem ! ” commanded Lon. 

Crabbe stood still. 

“That gal don’t go back tonight! She’s mine! Ye 
gived her to me, and I want her now.” 

Lem wriggled his body between Fledra and the stairs; 
but the girl thrust herself upon him with an angry snarl. 

“ Don’t touch me with your dirty hands ! ” she gasped. 

Lem caught his breath. 

“ Ye’ve let that rich pup of a Shellington kiss ye = — ye 
don’t move from here ! ” 

Fledra crushed back against the cabin wall and eluded 
his searching fingers. 

“ I was goin’ to marry Mr. Shellington ; but I ain’t 
now. I’m going back to him for tonight, and tomorrow, 
and I’m goin’ to let him kiss me, and I’m goin’ to kiss 
him.” 


OF THE MISSING 


255 


She put forward her face until her breath swept Lem’s 
skin. 

“ I’m goin’ to kiss him as much — as much as he’ll let 
me. And I’m goin’ to write Fluke ; and, if ye touches me 
afore I does all that — I’ll kill ye ! ” 

Lem drew back from her vehemence, leaving the way of 
the staircase clear, and in another instant Fledra was 
gone. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


T he following day Shellington left for New York, 
immediately after breakfast. 

Fledra made no attempt to write her farewells 
until in the evening after she had looked her last upon 
Floyd, and Ann had seen her to bed. An hour passed 
before she got up softly and turned on the light. She 
fumbled warily about her table for writing materials, and 
after she had found them her tense face was bent long 
over the letters. When she had finished, she stole along 
the hall to Horace’s study, and left there the tear-stained 
envelops for him and her brother. 

Once back in her room, she donned her street-clothes 
rapidly, and, after taking a silent farewell of the surround- 
ings she loved, climbed through the window and dropped 
to the ground. She crept stealthily to the back of the 
house and approached the dog-kennels. Through the 
dim light she could see the scrawny greyhounds pulling 
at their leashes as she fumbled at the wire-mesh door. 
Whines from several of the dogs made Fledra step inside, 
whence she glanced out misgivingly to see if she had been 
observed. 

‘‘ Snatchet ! ” she whispered. 

From a distant corner she heard the rattle of a chain. 
“ Snatchet ! ” she called again. 

This time she spoke more loudly and advanced a step. 
‘‘ yV^here are ye ? ” 

A familiar whine gave her Snatchet’s whereabouts. She 
felt her way along the right wall, and as she passed each 
animal she spoke tenderly to it. Upon reaching the little 
256 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 251 


mongrel, Fledra placed her face down close to him. The 
glitter of his shining eyes, the warm contact of his wet 
tongue, brought tears from her. She told him gently that 
they were going away together, going back to the country 
where many of the evil persons of the world congregated. 
The girl took the collar from the dog’s neck and, pick- 
ing him up quickly, retraced her steps. 

« We’re going back to the hut, Snatchet,” she told him 
again, ‘‘ and Fledra’s going to take you because Floyd 
won’t care when he’s got Sister Ann — and Brother 
Horace.” At the mention of the man’s name, the squat- 
ter girl bent her head over the yellow dog and sobbed. 

Then she ran until she was far from the house; but her 
steps lagged more and more as she neared the river. Long 
before she reached it she stopped and sat down. How 
intensely she wished that her sacrifice was to wander alone 
with Snatchet the rest of her days I Anything would have 
been preferable to Lem and his scow. But the bargain 
with her enemies had been the surrendering of herself 
to the canalman, and shortly she rose and proceeded on 
her way to the barge. Before entering it, she raised her 
eyes to the sky. Everything was at peace with the In- 
finite, save her own little tortured soul. She dashed aside 
her tears and ascended the gangplank, halting at the top 
a moment to answer Middy Burnes’ familiar call to her. 
She saw that Middy had his little tug under steam and 
was ready to tow the scow away. Shuddering, Fledra 
went down the stairs into the living-room, where Lem and 
Lon awaited her. 

Neither man spoke when she put Snatchet down on 
the floor and threw back the lovely cloak she had re- 
ceived from Ann at Christmas. Lem’s eyes glittered as 
he looked at it. Before Fledra entered, the scowman had 
been industriously tacking a sole on a big leather boot, 
held tightly between his knees. Now he ceased working; 


g58 


FROM THE VALLEY 


the rusty hook loosened its hold upon the heel of the boot, 
and the hammer was poised lightly in his left hand. 
From his mouth protruded the sparkling points of some 
steel tacks. 

Lon was first to break the strained silence. 

“We been waitin’ a long time fer ye, Flea. Ye’ve kept 
the tug a steamin’ fer two hours.” 

“ I couldn’t come before,” replied the girl. “ I had to 
wait till Fluke and Sister Ann went to bed.” 

Lon sneered as he repeated : 

“ Sister Ann ! ” 

“ She’s the lady you saw when you were there. Pappy 
Lon. And she’s the best woman in all the world ! ” 

The squatter smiled darkly. 

“ Ye’d best put Snatchet in the back room, and then 
come here again and set down. Flea, ’cause it’ll take a 
long time to get to Ithaca, and ye’ll be tired a stand- 
in’.” 

His sarcasm caused no change to cross the girl’s face; ’ 
but Lem grinned broadly. He took the tacks from be- , 
tween his teeth and made as if to speak. After a few vain | 
stutters, however, he replaced the tacks and hammered 
away at the old boot. Now and then the goiter moved 
up and down, each movement indicating the passage of ! 
a thought through his sluggish brain. | 

Fledra removed Snatchet and returned to the living- 
cabin, as Lon had suggested. 

“I want to talk to you before I sit down,” she said ^ 
in a low tone. “What are you going to do with me?” ' 

Just then the scow lurched, and the whistle of the tug i 
ahead screamed a farewell to Tarrytown. Fledra heard ! 
the grinding of the boat against the landing as it was | 
pulled slowly away, and she sprang to the window. She I 
took one last glimpse of the promised land, one lingering j 
look at the twinkling lights, which shone like glow-worms I 


OF THE MISSING 


259 


and seemed to signal sympathy to the terrified girl. Fi- 
nally she turned a tearless face to Lon. 

“ I want to know what you’re going to do with me 
when we get to Ithaca. Can I stay awhile with Granny 
Cronk.J^ ” 

She glanced fearfully from Lon to the scowman, whose 
lips were now free of the nails. His wide smile disclosed 
his darkened teeth as he stammered: 

‘‘ Yer Granny Cronk’s been chucked into a six-foot 
hole in the ground, and ye won’t see her no more.” 

Staring at the speaker, Fledra fell back against the 
wall. 

“Granny Cronk ain’t dead! She ain’t! You’re lying, 
Lem Crabbe ! ” 

“ Ask yer daddy, if ye don’t believe me,” grunted Lem. 

Fledra cast imploring eyes to Lon. 

“ Yer granny went dead a long time ago,” verified the 
squatter. 

“ Then I can stay with you. Pappy Lon, just for a 
little time. Oh, Pappy Lon,” tears rose slowly, and 
sobs caught her throat as she advanced toward him, 
“ I’ll cook for you, and I’ll work days and nights, if I can 
live with you ! ” She was so near him that she allowed a 
trembling hand to fall upon his arm. But he spurned 
it, shaking it off as he growled: 

“ Don’t tech me ! Set down and shut up ! ” 

She passed over the repulse and sobbed on : 

“ But, Pappy Lon, I’d rather die, I’d rather throw my- 
self in the water, than stay with Lem in this boat! I 
want to tell you how I’ve prayed — Sister Ann taught 
me to. I always asked that Flukey might stay in Tarry- 
town, and that nothing would ever hurt Mr. Shellington. 
I never dared pray for myself, because — because God 
had enough to do to help all the other ones, and because 
I never asked anything for myself till you found me. I 


260 


FROM THE VALLEY 


want to stay right in the shanty with you, Pappy Lon. I 
hate Lem — oh, how I hate him ! ” 

Lem coughed and wheezed. 

“ I guess we’d better shet her claptrap once and fer 
all,” he said. “ Lon, ye leave me to settle with Flea — 
I know how.” 

The squatter silenced Lem with a look and rose lum- 
beringly. As he struck a match and made toward the 
steps, Fledra followed close after him. 

“ Pappy Lon, if you’ll stay with me here on the boat 
till we get to Ithaca, then I’ll do what you say when we 
get there. You sha’n’t go and leave me now with Lem, 
you sha’n’t, you sha’n’t ! ” Her voice rose to a shriek, and 
her small body trembled like a leaf in a wind. So loud 
were her cries, and so fiercely did she clutch at Lon’s 
coat, that he turned savagely upon her. 

“ I’ll do what I please. Shet up, or Middy’ll hear ye. 
Git yer hands offen me! ” 

Pappy Lon, if you leave me with Lem, then I’ll jump 
in the river ! ” 

She bit her lips to stifle the sobs; but still clung be- 
seechingly to his coat. 

Lon stepped backward from the chair, and whirled 
about so quickly that his coat was jerked from Fledra’s 
grasp. 

“ Then I’ll take Fluke, and what I won’t do to him 
ain’t worth speakin’ ’bout.” He glanced at her face and 
stopped. Never had he seen such an expression. Her 
bleeding lips and flaring eyes sent him a step from her. 

“ If you leave me with Lem,” she hissed her repetition, 
“ then I’ll jump in the river I ” Seeing that he hesitated, 
she went on, “ You stay right in here with Lem and me. 
Pappy Lon, and when we get to the hut I’ll do what 
you tell me.” 

Fledra heard Lem drop the old boot he had been mend- 


OF THE MISSING 


261 


ing and advance toward her. She turned upon him, and 
the scowman halted. 

“ I said as how I’d settle with ye, Flea,” he said, ‘‘ and 
now I’m goin’ to.” 

But Lon glared so fiercely that Crabbe closed his mouth 
and retreated. 

“ It ain’t time fer ye to settle yet, Lem, I’m a thinkin’,” 
said Lon. “Ye keep shet up, or I’ll settle with ye afore 
ye has a chance to fix Flea.” Turning to the girl, he 
questioned her. Did ye tell anyone ye was goin’ with 
me.f^ ” Fledra nodded her head. “ Did ye tell Flukey ” 

“ Yes, and Mr. Shellington. But I told them both that 
I came of my own free will. But you know I came be- 
cause I wanted Mr. Shellington to live and Flukey to stay 
where he is. But I ain’t going to be alone in this room 
with Lem tonight — I tell you that ! ” 

Lon sat down and smoked moodily on his pipe. After 
a few minutes’ thought he said: 

“Ye can sleep in that back room where ye put the 
dorg. Flea, and if there’s a key in the lock ye can turn 
it. You come up to the deck with me, Lem.” 

With a dark scowl, the scowman followed the squatter 
upstairs. He had reckoned that the hour to take Flea 
was near; but Lon’s heavy hand held him back. When 
they were standing side by side in the darkness of the 
barge-deck, Cronk spoke. 

“Lem,” he said, “ I told ye before that Flea ain’t like 
Flukey. She’d just as soon throw herself into that water 
as she’d look at ye. She ain’t afraid of nothin’ but 
you, and ye’ve got to keep yer hands offen her till I git 
her foul, do ye hear.? ” 

“ Ye ain’t keepin’ me away just fer the sake of that 
high-toned Brimbecomb pup, be ye, Lon.? ” 

“ Nope. I’d ruther you’d have her, Lem, ’cause ye’ll 
beat her and make her wish a hundred times a day that 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


she’d drowned herself. I say, if ye let me fix this thing, 
ye’ll come out on the top of the heap. If ye don’t, she’ll 
raise a fuss, and, if that damned governor gets wind of 
it, he might catch on that the kid be his. He’d run us 
both down afore ye could say jackrabbit. Ye let 
Flea alone till I say ye can have her.” 

“ If yer dealin’ fair — ” 

The squatter interrupted his companion with an angry 
growl. 

“ Have I ever cheated ye out of any money ? ” 

Nope,” answered Lem. 

Then I won’t cheat ye out of no girl; fer I love a 
five-cent piece better’n Flea any time. Now, shet up, and 
we’ll go down to sleep ! ” 

Fledra fled into the back room, and, closing the door 
quickly, slipped the bolt. She glanced about the cabin, 
which through the candlelight looked dirty and miserably 
mean. But it was a haven of escape from Lem, and she 
welcomed it. A large can of tobacco was on a wooden 
box. Fledra knew this belonged to the canalman and 
that he would come after it. She picked it up, and, open- 
ing the door, shoved it far into the other room. She could 
hear Lon’s muttering voice on the deck above, and the 
swish of the water as the tug pulled the scow along. Once 
more she carefully locked the cabin door, and then, with 
a sob, dropped to her knees, burying her face in the 
coarse blanket that covered the bunk. Long and wildly 
she wept, her sobs frequently stopping the utterance of 
an attempted prayer. Finally her exhaustion overcame 
her, and she fell into a troubled sleep. 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


W HEN Fledra opened her eyes the next morning 
she could not at first realize where she was. 
When she did she rose from the bed fully 
dressed; for she had taken off none of her clothing the 
night before. She drew a long breath as she realized 
that she would not be pestered by Lem during the trip 
to Ithaca. Peering through the small cabin window, she 
could see that they were slowly passing the farms on the 
banks of the river as the barge was towed slowly through 
the water. The peace of spring overspread each field, 
covering the land as far as the girl could see. Herds of 
cattle grazed calmly on the hills, and she could hear the 
faint tinkling of their bells above the chug-chug of Middy’s 
small steamer ahead. At intervals fieets of barges, pulled 
along by struggling little tugboats, passed between her 
and the bank. These would see Tarrytown — the prom- 
ised land of Screech Owl’s prophecy, the paradise she had 
been forced to leave! The light of self-sacrifice shone in 
her uphfted eyes, and many times her sight was blurred 
by tears; but no thought of escape from Lem and Lon 
came to her mind. To reenter her promised land would 
place her beloved ones in jeopardy. 

Her reverie left her at a call from Lon, and she un- 
fastened the cabin-door. 

“ Come out and get the breakfast fer us. Kid,” or- 
dered the squatter. 

Fledra left the little room and mechanically prepared 
the coarse food. When it was ready, she took her seat 
263 


^64i 


FROM THE VALLEY 


opposite Cronk, and Lem dragged a chair to the table 
bj the aid of the hook on his arm. 

“ Ye’re feelin’ more pert this mornin’. Flea,” said Lon, 
after drinking a cup of black coffee. 

“ Yes,” replied Flea faintly. 

‘‘ And are ye goin’ to mind y er pappy now ? ” pursued 
Lon. 

“ Yes, after we get to Ithaca,” murmured Fledra. 

“ Tell me what ye said to Flukey in yer note.” 

‘‘ I told him he could stay with Brother Horace ; but 
that I’d go with you, and — ” 

Her slow precise speech made a decided impression upon 
Lem; for he ceased eating and stared at her open-mouthed. 
But Cronk brought his fist down on the table with a 
thump that rattled the tin dishes. 

‘‘ Don’t be puttin’ on no guff with me, brat ! ” he 
shouted. “Ye talk as I teeched ye to, and not as them 
other folks do.” 

Fledra fell into a resentful silence. 

After a few seconds, Cronk said: 

“ Now, go on. Kid, and tell me what ye told him.” 

“ If you won’t let me speak as I like, Pappy Lon, then 
I’ll keep still.” 

The girl faced him with brave unconcern, with such 
reckless defiance that Lon drew down his already darkened 
brow. 

“ Yer gettin’ sassy ! ” Lem grunted, with his mouth full 
of food. 

Cronk held his peace. He peered at her covertly, as if 
he would discover what had so changed her since the night 
before. Her dignity, the haughty poise of her head as 
she looked straight at him, filled him with something like 
dismay. Would Lem be able to subdue her with brute 
force.? The scowman also observed her stealthily, com- 
pared her to Scraggy, and wondered. They both waited 


OF THE MISSING 


265 


for Fledra to continue; but during the rest of the meal 
she did not speak again. 

Miss Shellington was deeply surprised when the deputy 
met her with an open letter in his hand, and said: 

The court has called me away, Ma’m. I guess your 
troubles are all over.” 

For a moment Ann did not comprehend the meaning 
of his words. Then she laid a trembling hand on his 
arm and faltered: 

‘‘ Possibly they’ll send someone else; but I’d much rather 
you’d stay. We are — we are used to you.” 

“ Thanks, Ma’m ; but no one else won’t come — the 
case has been called off.” 

Increasing excitement reddened Miss Shellington’s 
cheeks. 

‘‘ Oh, do you think they are going to leave them here 
with us ? ” 

The deputy buttoned his coat and put on his hat. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know ; but I’d almost think so, or I 
wouldn’t have got this order.” He tapped his breast- 
pocket and made as if to go; but he faced the other 
once more instead, with slightly rising color. “ You still 
have your doctor’s orders. Miss, that nobody can take the 
boy away for sometime; so don’t worry. And, Ma’m,” 
the red in his face deepened, “ you ain’t prayed all these 
weeks for nothing. I ain’t much on praying myself ; 
but I’ve got a lot of faith in a pretty, good young lady 
when she does it. Goodby, Ma’m.” 

As Ann bade the officer farewell, the relief from haunt- 
ing fears and racking possibilities almost overcame her. 
She went back to Floyd, resolutely holding up under. the 
strain. She told him that the stranger had gone; but 
that, as she had received no communication, she did not 
know the next steps that would be taken. 


S66 


FROM THE VALLEY 


It was nearly nine o’clock when Ann tapped softly upon 
Fledra’s door. There had been no sign of life from the 
blue room that morning; for Miss Shellington had given 
orders that Fledra be allowed to sleep if she so wished. 
Now, however, she wanted the girl to come to the dining- 
room to welcome Flukey to his first meal at the table and 
to learn that the deputy had been withdrawn. W^hen no 
voice answered her knock, Ann turned the handle of the 
door and peeped in. Fledra’s bed was open, and looked 
as if its occupant had just got up. Miss Shellington 
passed through to the bathroom, and called. She ran 
back hastily to the bed and put her hand upon it. The 
sheets were cold, while the pillow showed only a faint im- 
pression where Fledra’s dark head had rested. Miss 
Shellington paused and glanced about, fright taking the 
place of expectancy on her face. She hurried to the open 
window and looked out. Then she rushed to the kitchen 
and questioned the servants. None of them had seen] 
Fledra, all were earnestly certain that the girl had not; 
been about the house during the morning. Ann thought 
of Floyd, and for the nonce her fears were forced aside. 
In spite of her anxiety, she had a smile on her lips as 
she entered the breakfast-room and took her seat opposite 
the boy. 

“ We’ll have to eat without Sister this morning,” she ! 
said gently to the convalescent. “ She’s a tired little 
girl.” 

“ She’d be glad to see me here,” said Floyd wistfully. 
“ Sister Ann, what’s the matter with Fledra ” 

Miss Shellington would have given much to have been] 
able to answer this question. Finally her alarm became 
so strong that she left her breakfast unfinished, and, un- 
known to Floyd, instituted a systematic search for the 
girl. Many were the excuses she made to the waiting 
young brother as the day lengthened hour by hour. 


OF THE MISSING 


267 


Again and again he demanded that Fledra be brought to 
him. At length the parrying of his questions by Miss 
Shellington aroused his suspicions, so that he grew 
nervous and fretful. Five o’clock came, and yet no tid- 
ings of the girl. Ann’s anxiety had now become distrac- 
tion; for her brother’s absence threw upon her shoulders 
the responsibility of the girl’s disappearance, and the care 
of Floyd should he suffer a relapse. Her perturbation 
became so unbearable that she put her pride from her, 
and sought the aid of Everett Brimbecomb. 

She called him on the telephone, and, when his voice 
answered her clearly over the wire, she felt again all her 
old desire to be with him; her agitation and uncertainty 
increased her longing. 

“ Everett, I’m in dreadful trouble. Can’t you come 
over a moment ? ” 

“ Of course, dear girl. I’ll come right away.” 

Not many minutes later Ann herself ushered Everett 
into the drawing-room, where she had spent such happy 
hours with him. But, when they were alone, her distrust 
of him once more took possession of her, and she looked 
sharply at him as she asked : 

“ Everett, do you know where Fledra has gone.^ ” 

“Who? Fledra Vandecar? ” His taunt was un- 
timely, and his daring smile changed her distrust to re- 
pulsion. 

“ No ; you know whom I mean — Fledra Cronk. She’s 
not here. Horace has gone away for a few days, and 
I’m wild with anxiety. Will you help me find her, 
Everett? She must be here with us until it is decided 
which way the matter will go.” 

They had been standing apart; but the girl’s words 
drew him closer, and he took her hand in his. He had 
truly missed her, and was glad to be in her confidence once 
more. 


268 


FROM THE VALLEY 

‘‘ Ann, you’ve never been frank with me in this mat- 
ter; but I’m going to return good for evil. I really don’t 
know where the girl is; still, anything I can do I will. 
But I do know that her father has seen her ; for he told me 
about it. It was — 

Ann cut him off with a sharp cry: 

“ But he’s seen her only the once, Everett — only that 
one afternoon when he first came.” 

This time Everett answered with heart-rending deliber- 
ateness : 

‘‘ You’re mistaken, Ann. Your paragon got out of the 
window when you were all asleep,” Ann’s sudden pallor 
disturbed the lawyer only an instant, and, not heeding 
her clutch on his arm or a pained ejaculation from her, 
he proceeded, “ and went to her father. He told me this. 
Ann, don’t be stupid. Don’t totter that way. Sit down 
here, child. No, don’t push me away. . . . Well, as 

you please ! ” 

“ Oh, you seem so heartless about it,” gasped Ann, 
when you know how Horace loves her ! ” 

Miss Shellington did not notice the smile that crossed 
his lips as he looked down at her, or the triumph in his 
eyes when he said: 

‘‘ But, Ann, I’ve told you only what you’ve asked of 
me. I think you’re rather unkind. Dear.” 

I don’t intend to be,” she moaned, leaning back and 
closing her eyes. “ Oh ! she was with us so long ! What 
shall I say to Horace ? ” 

“ Didn’t you say he was out of town.? ” 

“ Yes, for four or five days,” Ann put the wrong mean- 
ing to Everett’s deep sigh, and she finished ; but I’m 
going to send for him.” 

“And, pray, what can he do.? The girl is gone, and 
that ends it.” 


OF THE MISSING 


1^69 


“ But Horace might ascertain if she had been forced 
to go.” 

Brimbecomb laughed low. 

“ No one could force her to jump from the window of 
her bedroom.” 

“ Everett, Fledra has always said that she hated her 
father, and that she never wanted to go back to him, 
because he abused both her and her brother.” 

“ Yes, so you told me before, and I think I remem- 
ber telling you that you were making a mistake in trusting 
in her truthfulness. It seems her brother told her that 
he did not wish to return with the squatter; so she left 
him here with you. For my part,” Everett pressed closer 
to her, “ I’m glad that she is gone. The coming of those 
children completely changed both you and Horace. You’ll 
get used to ingratitude before you’ve done much charity 
work.” 

Ann’s intuition increased her disbelief in the man op- 
posite her. 

“ Everett, will you swear to me that you had nothing to 
do with her going? ” 

Brimbecomb swore glibly enough, and supplemented his 
oath with: 

I’ve always felt, though, that you should not have 
them here ; and I can’t say that I shouldn’t have taken 
them away, if I could, Ann. Don’t you think we could 
overlook past unpleasantness, and let our arrangements go 
on as we intended they should? ” 

Ann rose hastily to her feet. She was sorely tempted 
to fall into his arms. How handsome he looked, how 
strongly his eyes pleaded with her ! But her vague fears 
and distrust held her back. She sank again to the chair. 

‘^No, no -r- not just yet, Everett,” she said. “ I’ve 
loved you desW’ly ? but I can’t understand Fledra s disap 


270 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


pearance. Oh, I — I don’t know how to meet Horace ! 
He loved and trusted her so ! ” Again she looked at him 
with indecision. Come back to me, Dear,” she whis- 
pered, when it is all over. I’m so unhappy today ! ” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


F iOYD raised his head when Ann bent over him. 
Agitation and sorrow had so altered her that the 
change brought him to a half -sitting position. 

“ Elea’s sick, I bet ! ” he burst out, without waiting to 
be addressed. “ Don’t try to fool me. Sister Ann.” 

As his suspicion grew within him, his eyes traveled 
over her face again and again; then he put his feet on 
the floor and stood up. 

‘‘Ye didn’t teU me the truth this morning, did ye.^^ ” 
Miss Shellington forced him gently back on the divan, 
and sat down beside him. 

“ I’d hoped, Floyd, dear,” she said tremblingly, “ that 
we were all going to be happy. You must be brave and 
help me, won’t you.^ If you should become ill again, 
I think I should die.” 

“ Then, tell me about Flea. Has Pappy Lon — ” 

“ Fledra went back to him last night of her own free 
will.” 

With eyes growing wide, from fear, Floyd stared at 
her. 

“ I don’t know what you mean ! Did she tell ye she 
was a goin’ ? ” 

“ No, Dear. This morning Fledra was not in her bed- 
room, and for awhile I thought she had not heeded our 
cautions, but had gone out for a walk. But Mr. Brim- 
becomb has just told me that Fledra went back with your 
father, and that she had not been forced to go.” 

“ I don’t believe it ! ” The boy’s voice was sharp with 
“ Pappy Lon made her go — ye can bet on that, 
271 


agony. 


27a FROM THE VALLEY 

Sister Ann! Flea wouldn’t go back there without a rea- 
son. I bet that big duffer of yours had a finger in the j 
pie.” I 

Ann flushed painfully. i 

“ Floyd, dear, don’t, I beg of you ! ” 1 

“ I’m sorry I said that. Sister Ann. But Flea didn’t j 
go for nothin’. Sister Ann, will you and Brother Horace | 
find out why she went? I have to go, too, if Flea’s in ! 
the hut. Pappy Lon and Lem’ll kill her ! ” 

He attempted to rise; but Ann’s restraining hand held 
him back. 

“ Floyd, Floyd, dear, we don’t know where she’s gone ; | 
but my brother will come soon, and he’ll find her. He ! 
won’t let Fledra be kept from us, if she wants to come 
back.” 

The boy’s rigid body did not relax at her assurance, 
nor did her argument lessen his determination. 

“But what about Lem? You don’t know Lem, Sister 
Ann. He’s the worst man I ever see. I’ve got to go and 
get my sister ! ” 

“ Floyd, you’d die if you should try to go out now. 
Why, Dear, you can scarcely stand. Now, listen! I’ll 
send a telegram to my brother, and he’ll be right back. 
Then, if you are determined to go, and can, he’ll take 
you. Why, child, you haven’t been out in weeks ! ” 

Three days crawled slowly along, and yet Horace made 
no response to the many frantic telegrams that Ann 
had sent. Never had the hours seemed so leaden-winged 
as those passed waiting for him to come. Ann had re- 
ceived one note from him, and three letters for Fledra 
lay unopened in the girl’s room. His note to Ann was 
from Boston, and she immediately sent a despatch to him 
there. 

On the fourth day after Fledra’s disappearance, when 


OF THE MISSING 2T3 

Ann met her brother, one glance told her that he was 
unaware of their trouble. 

“ Oh, Horace, I thought you’d never get here ! Didn’t 
you receive any of my telegrams ? ” 

‘‘No! jWhat’s the matter? Has something happened 
to Floyd? Where’s Fledra? ” 

“ Gone I ” gasped Ann. 

“ Gone 1 Gone where ? ” 

His voice was filled with imperious questioning, and 
Ann stifled her sobs. 

“ I know only what Everett has told me. When we 
got up the morning after you left, she was gone. I 
called Everett over, and he told me she went with her 
father of her own free will. The squatter told him so.” 

“ He’s a liar ! And if he’s inveigled that girl — ” 

Ann’s loyalty to Everett forced her to say: 

“ Hush, Horace ! You’ve no right to say anything 
against him until you are sure.” 

Shellington took several rapid strides around the room. 

“ If I’d only known it before 1 ” 

“ I’ve tried to reach you,” Ann broke in ; “ but my 
messages could not have been delivered.” 

“ Oh, I’m not blaming you, Ann,” he said in a lower 
lone. “ But those men in some way have forced her to 
go. I’m sure of it! Fledra would never have gone with 
them willingly. Did she leave no message, no word? 
Have you searched my room? Have you looked every- 
where? ” 

“No, I didn’t look in your room^ — it didn’t enter my 
mind. Why didn’t I think of that before? Come, we’ll 
look now.” 

Under the large blotter on his desk Horace found the 
two tear-stained letters Fledra had left. With a groan 
the frantic lover tore open the one directed to him and 
read it. 


274 


FROM THE VALLEY 


She’s gone with them ! ” he said slowly in a hollow 
yoice, and sank into a chair. 

Miss Shellington took the note from his outstretched 
hand, and read : 

** Mr, Shellington , — 

“ I’m going away because I don’t like your house any more. 
Let Floyd stay and let your sister take care of him like when 
I was here. Give him this letter and tell him I’ll love him 
every day. I took Snatchet because I thought I’d be lonely. 
Goodby.” 

The last words were almost illegible. With twitching 
face, Ann handed the letter back to Horace. 

In the man before her she almost failed to recognize 
her brother, so great was the change that had come over 
him. She threw her arms tenderly about him, and for 
many minutes neither spoke. At length, with a start, 
Horace loosened his sister’s arms and stood up. 

“ Give Floyd his note — • and leave me alone for a 
while, Dear.” 

His tone served to hasten Ann’s ready obedience. She 
took the note for Floyd and went out. 

Four times Horace read and reread his letter. He 
was tortured with a thousand fears. Where had she 
gone, and with whom.^ And why should she have left him, 
when she had so constantly and sincerely evinced her love 
for him.'^ She could not have gone back to the squatters; 
for her hatred of them had been intense. He remembered 
what she had told him of Lem Crabbe — and sprang to 
his feet with an oath. Hot blood rushed to his finger- 
tips, and left them dripping with perspiration. He 
fought with a desire to kill someone; but banished the 
thought that Fledra had not held faith with him. He 
called to mind her affection and passionate devotion, and 
knew that to doubt her would be unjust. But, if to 


OF THE MISSING 


275 


I leave him had made her unhappy, why had she gone? 
He thought of Floyd’s letter, and a sudden wish to read 
it seized him. 

When he entered the boy’s room Floyd was lying flat 
on his back, staring fixedly at Miss Shellington, who was 
1 deciphering the letter for him. She ceased reading when 
her brother appeared. 

Horace,” she said, rising, “ Floyd says he doesn’t be- 
lieve that Fledra went of her own free will. He thinks 
she was forced in some way.” 

Horace stooped and looked into the boy’s white face, 
at the same time taking Fledra’s letter from Ann. 

Flea can’t make me think. Brother Horace,” said 
Flukey, ‘‘ that she went ’cause she wanted to. Pappy Lon 
made her go, I bet! There’s something we don’t know. 
I want you to take me up there to Ithaca, and when J 
get there I can find her. Prayin’ won’t keep her from 
Lem. We’ve got to do something.” 

Horace shot a glance of inquiry at his sister. 

‘‘We prayed every morning. Dear,” she said simply, 
“ that our little girl might be protected from harm.” 

“ She shall be protected, and I will protect her ! 
[Where’s the deputy? ” 

“ They called him away the morning Fledra left.” 

“ May I read your letter, Floyd? ” 

“ Sure! ” replied the boy wearily. 

Shellington’s eyes sought the paper in his hand: 

‘‘ Floyd love , — 

“ Fm going away, but I will love you every day I live. 
Floyd, could you ask Sister Ann to pray for everyone — me, 
too? Forgive me for taking Snatchet — I wanted him aw- 
fully. You be good to Sister Ann and always love Brother 
Horace and mind every word he says. I’m going away be- 
cause I want to. Remember that, Floyd dear, goodby. 

‘‘ Fledra.” 


S76 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


After finishing the letter, Horace said to Ann, “ I must 
see Brimbecomb at once.” And he turned abruptly and 
went out. Ann followed him hurriedly. 

‘ “ Horace, dear, you won’t quarrel with him, for my 
sake.” 

Not unless he had a hand in taking her away. God ! 
I’m so troubled I can’t think.” 

Ann watched him go to the telephone; then, with a 
premonition of even greater coming evil, she crept back 
to Floyd. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


W HEN Horace ushered Brimbecomb into his home, 
so firm was his belief that the young lawyer had 
been instrumental in removing Eledra that he re- 
strained himself with difficulty from wringing a confession 
from the man by violence. For many moments he could 
not bring himself to broach the subject of which his mind 
was so full. Everett, however, soon led to the disappear- 
ance of the girl. 

“ I’m glad you telephoned me so soon after your ar- 
rival,” said Brimbecomb. ‘‘ I was just starting for the 
station. If you hadn’t, I shouldn’t have seen you. I 
had something to say to you.” 

“ And I have something to say to you,” said Horace, 
his eyes steadily leveled at the man before him. Where 
is Fledra Cronk.?^ ” 

Everett’s confidence gave him a power that was not to 
be daunted by this direct question. 

“ My dear fellow,” he replied calmly, “ I don’t exactly 
know where she is ; but I can say that I’ve had a note 
from her father, telling me that she was with him in New 
York, and safe. I suppose it won’t be necessary to tell 
you that she was not compelled to go ? ” 

Horace whitened with suppressed rage. He was now 
convinced that the suavity of his colleague concealed a 
craftiness he had never suspected, and he felt sure that 
Everett had taken advantage of his absence to strike an 
underhanded blow. Banishing a desire to fell the other 
to the floor and then choke the secret from him, he de- 

m. 


^78 


FROM THE VALLEY 


cided to ply all the craft of his profession, and draw 
the knowledge from Brimbecomb by a series of pertinent 
queries. 

“ May I see the communication you have received from 
Cronk.? ” 

Everett seemed to have expected the question; for he 
made a brave pretense of looking through his wallet for 
the fictitious letter. He took up the space of several 
minutes, arranging and rearranging the documents. 
Then, as he looked at Horace, a paper fluttered to the 
floor, unobserved by him. 

“ On second thought,” said he, I think it wouldn’t be 
quite right to show you a private letter from one of 
my clients. I have told you enough already. I’m sorry, 
but it’s impossible for me to let you see it.” 

Everett mentally congratulated himself upon his 
diplomacy, while Horace bit his lip until it was ridged 
white. In his disappointment he cast down his eyes, and 
then it was that his attention was called to the paper 
Brimbecomb had dropped on the floor. He changed his 
position, and when he came to a standstill his foot was 
planted squarely on the paper. For a moment Horace 
was under the impression that Everett had seen him cover 
the letter; but the unruffled egotism on the face of the 
other betrayed no suspicion. 

“ Who ordered the withdrawal of the deputy? ” Horace 
demanded. 

Everett knew that the lies he told would have to be con- 
sistent; so he repeated what he had said to Ann. 

“ I don’t know,” Everett said. “ I didn’t.” 

Horace gazed at his companion for several seconds. 

“ Something tells me that you’re lying,” he said finally. 

An evil change of expression was the only external sign 
of Brimbecomb’s longing to throttle Horace. 

“A compliment, I must say, my dear Shellington,”" 


OF THE MISSING 


279 


he said ; “ and the only reason I have for not punching 
you is — Ann.” 

The other’s eyes^ narrowed ominously. 

‘‘ Ann is the one who is keeping me from thumping you, 
Brimbecomb. If you know anything of Fledra Cronk, I 
want you to tell me.” 

‘‘ I’ve told you all I know,” Everett answered. 

‘^For Ann’s sake, I hope you’ve told me the truth; 
but, if you haven’t, and have done anything to my little 
girl, then God protect you ! ” 

The last words were uttered with such emotional decision 
that Everett’s first real fear rose within him. With diffi- 
culty he held back a torrent of words by which he might 
exonerate himself. Instead, he said: 

“ Some day, Shellington, you’ll apologize to me for 
your implied accusation. You have taken — ” 

“ Pardon me,” Horace interrupted, “ but I must ask 
you to leave. I’m going to Governor Vandecar.” 

No sooner had his visitor closed the door than Horace 
stooped and picked up the paper from under his foot. 
Going to the window, he opened the sheet, smoothed it 
out, and read: 

Mr, Brimbecomb , — 

“ I told you I got the letter you wrote me, and you know 
I can’t ever love you. I hate your kisses — they made me lie 
to Sister Ann, and I couldn’t tell Brother Horace how it hap- 
pened. I am going back to Lem and Pappy Lon to Ithaca 
because you and Pappy Lon said as how I must or they would 
kill Brother Horace. But I hate you, I hate you — and I 
will always hate you. Fledra Cronk.” 

Like a brand of fire, every word seared the reader’s 
brain. As his hand crushed the letter, Horace’s head 
dropped down on his arm, and deep sobs shook him. 
The girl had gone for his sake, and was now braving un- 


280 


¥ROM THE VALLEY 


speakable dangers to save him from an evil trumped up 
by his enemies. Tense-muscled, he sprang to his feet 
and rushed into the hall. 

‘‘ My God [ What a fool I’ve been I Ann, Ann ! 
Here, read this ! ” His words, pronounced in a voice un- 
like his own, were almost incoherent. He threw the paper 
at the trembling girl, as he continued, Brimbecomb ; 
dropped it on the floor. Now I think Governor Vandecar 
will help me ! I’m going to Ithaca 1 ” 

With the letter held tightly in her hands, the woman 
read over twice the pitiful denunciation; then, tearless j 
and strong, she went to her brother. I 

‘‘What — what are you going to do for her first. 
Dear.?” 

“ I must go to Albany and see the governor.” 

In the flurry of the departure little more was said, and 
before an hour had passed Horace Shellington had taken 
the train for Albany. He had instructed Ann to tell 
Floyd what had induced Fledra to leave them, and Ann 
lost no time in communicating the contents of the little 
tear-stained letter written to Everett. 

Later in the day Ann received a telegram from her 
brother in which she learned that he had missed the gov- 
ernor, who was on his way to Tarrytown. Horace said, 
also, that he himself was starting for Ithaca by way of 
Auburn. Ann sat down beside Floyd and read the mes- 
sage to him. 

“ Did he say,” asked the boy, that the governor was 
cornin’ here to Tarrytown.? ” 

“ Yes.” 

For many moments Floyd lay deep in thought. 

“ I’m goin’ to Governor Vandecar’s myself. If he’s 
the big man ye say he is, then he can help us. Get me 
my clothes. Sister Ann.” 


on THE MISSING 


281 


i 

I “ It won’t do any good, Floyd,” argued Ann. “ Gov- 
I ernor Vandecar has always thought that your father 
r ought to have his children. He doesn’t realize how you’ve 
suffered through him.” 

“ I’m goin’, anyway,” insisted Floyd doggedly. “ Get 
my clothes. Sister Ann. I can walk.” 

I ‘‘No, you mustn’t walk. Deary, you can’t; we’ll drive. 
I But I wish you wouldn’t go out at all, Floyd. Do listen 
1 to me ! ” 

“ But I must go. Please, get my clothes.” 

After brief, but vain, arguing, Ann yielded to Floyd’s 
1 entreaties. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


T he governor, meditating in his library, was dis- 
turbed by a ring at the front door. The servant 
opened it, and he heard Miss Shellington’s voice 
without. 

In a moment Ann entered, white and flurried. 

‘‘ I want you to pardon me, Floyd,” she begged, but 
that boy of ours insisted upon coming to see you. He 
would have come alone, had I refused to accompany him. 
Will you be kind to him for my sake.^ He is so miserable 
over his sister ! ” i 

Vandecar clasped her extended hands and smiled upon 
her. 

‘‘ I’ll be kind to him for his own sake, little friend. 
Mrs. Vandecar told me of her talk with Horace over the 
telephone, and I was awfully sorry to have missed him. 
But the little boy, where is he.?^ ” 

Miss Shellington threw open the door, and Vandecar’s 
gaze fell upon a tall boy, straight and slim, who pierced 
him with eyes that startled him into a vague apprehension. 
He did not utter a word — he seemed to be choked as 
effectually as if strong fingers were sunk into his throat. 

Floyd loosened his hands from Ann’s and stepped for- 
ward. 

“ I’m Flukey Cronk, Sir,” he broke forth, ‘‘ and Pappy 
Lon Cronk stole my sister Flea, and he’s goin’ to give her 
to Lem Crabbe to be his woman, and Lem won’t marry 
her, either. Will ye help me to get her back.?’ Brother 
Horace said as how ye could. Pappy Lon’s a thief, too, 
and so is Lem. If ye’d see Lem Crabbe, ye’d help my 
sister.” 

S82 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 288 


Ann saw two pairs of mottled brown eyes staring at 
each other, and, as she listened to Floyd’s petition, the 
likeness of the boy to the man struck her forcibly. The 
expression that swept over Governor Vandecar’s face 
frightened her, and she held her breath. But quicker 
than hers had been the thoughts of the man. He 
staggered at the name of “ Lon Cronk,” and his mind 
coursed back to a heart-rending scene, to hear again the 
deep voice of a big-shouldered thief pleading for a sick 
woman. Again he saw the huge form of the squatter 
loom up before him, and heard once more the frantic 
prayer for a week’s freedom. He had not taken his eyes 
from the boy’s, and a weakening of his knees compelled 
him to grip the back of the chair for support. jWith a 
voice thickened to huskiness, he stammered: 

‘‘ What : — • what did you say your father’s name was, 
boy.? ” 

‘‘Lon Cronk, Sir — and he’s the worst man ye ever 
see. I bet he’s the worst man in the state — only Lem 
Crabbe ! He beat my sister, and were makin’ me a thief.” 

Governor Vandecar dropped into his desk-chair. For 
a space of time his face was concealed from Ann and 
Floyd by his quivering hand. When he looked up, the 
joy in his eyes formed a strange contrast to Ann’s tear- 
ful face. Floyd, thinking the change in the governor 
boded well for Fledra, advanced a step. 

“ Sit down, boy,” said the governor in a voice that 
was still hoarse. “ Now, then, answer me a few questions. 
Did your father ever live in Syracuse.? ” 

“ Yep, me and Flea were born there.” 

“ How old are you.? ” 

“ Cornin’ sixteen.” 

“And your sister.? Tell me about her. Is she — how 
old is she.? ” 

“We be twins,” replied Floyd steadily. 


284 


FROM THE VALLEY 


The girl, watching the unfolding of a life’s tragedy, 
was silent even to hushing her breathing. The truth was 
slowly dawning upon her. How well she knew the story 
of the kidnapped children ! How often had her own heart 
bled for the tender mother, spending endless days in vain 
mourning! . She saw Governor Vandecar stand, saw him 
sway a little, and then turn toward the door. 

“ Governor, Governor! ” she called tremulously, “ I feel 
as if I were going to faint. Oh, can’t you see it all? 
W^here is Mrs. Vandecar? ” 

‘‘ Stay, Ann, stay ! Wait ! Boy, have you ever had 
any reason to believe that you were not the son of Lon 
Cronk?” Through fear of making a mistake, he had 
asked this question. He knew that, should he plant false 
hope in the timid mother he had shielded for years, she 
would be unable to bear it. 

“Nope,” replied Floyd wonderingly; “only that he 
hated me and Flea. He were awful to us sometimes.” 

“ There can be no mistake,” Ann thrust in. “ He looks 
too much like you, and the girl is exactly like him. . . . 

Oh, Floyd!” 

Vandecar extended his arms, and, with a sob that shook 
his soul, drew his boy to him. 

“You’re not Cronk’s son,” he said; “you’re mine! 
. . . God! Ann, you’ll never know just how I feel 

toward you and Horace. You’ve made me your life 
debtor; but, of course — of course, I didn’t know, did I? ” 
Then, startled by a new thought, he realized Floyd. “ But 
my girl ! ” 

“ Horace has gone for her,” Ann cried. 

“ And I will follow him,” groaned Vandecar. “ Horace 
— and he could not interest me in my own babies ! If 
I’d helped him, my little girl wouldn’t have been taken 
away ! ” 

In the man’s breakdown, Ann’s calm disappeared. Un- 


OF THE MISSING 


285 


able to restrain her tears, she fluttered about, first to 
Floyd, then to his father, kissing the boy again and 
I again, assuring and reassuring the governor. 

Just remember,” she whispered, bending over the sob- 
bing man, Horace loves her better than anything in the 
world. Listen, Floyd ! He’s going to marry her. Don’t 
you think he’ll do everything in his power to save her.^ 
. Don’t ^ — don’t sob that way ! ” 

I Of a sudden Vandecar leaped to his feet. Brushing 
a lock of white hair from his damp brow, he turned to 
I Floyd. 

Before I do anything else, I must take you to your 
mother.” 

But ain’t ye goin’ for Flea.^ ” demanded Floyd. 

Of course, I am going for my girl,” cried Vandecar, 
“ as fast as a train can take me I ” He turned suddenly 
and placed his firm hands on the boy’s shoulders. “ Be- 
fore I take you upstairs, boy, listen to me! You’ve a 
little mother, a sick little mother who has mourned you 
and your sister for years. I’m going to leave her with 
you while I’m gone for your sister. Your mother is 
ill, and — and needs you ! ” 

Still more interested in his absent sister than in his 
newly found parent, Floyd put in: 

“ I’ll do anything ye say, if ye’ll go for Flea.” 

'Ann touched the father’s arm gently. 

Come upstairs now.” 

Mrs. Vandecar was alone when her husband entered. 
She was sitting near the window, her eyes pensive and 
sad. The governor advanced a step, thrusting back the 
desire to blurt out the truth. The woman glanced into 
his eyes, and the change there brought her to her feet. 
Her face paled, and she put out her slender, trembling 
hands. 


286 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘ There’s something the matter, Floyd. 

"What’s — what’s happened? ... I heard the bell 
ring.” 

In an instant he crushed her to him, and in an agitated 
voice whispered gently: 

Darling, can you stand very good news — very, very 
good news, indeed? . . . No, no; if you tremble like 

that, I sha’n’t tell you. It’s only when you promise 
me — 

“ I promise, I promise, Floyd ! Is it anything about i 
our — our children ? ” 

‘‘ Yes — I have found them ! ” i 

How many times for lesser things had she fainted! 
How many hours had she lain too weak to speak! He | 
expected her now to evince her frail spirit. He felt her j 
shiver, felt her muscles tighten, until she seemed to grow 
taller as he held her. Then she drooped a little, as if | 
afraid. Dazedly she brushed back her tumbled hair, her j 
eyes flashing past him in the direction of the door. ' 

“ Bring — bring them — to — me ! ” she breathed. j 

Just how to explain her daughter’s danger pressed 
heavily upon him. He dared not picture Lon Cronk or 1 
the man Floyd had described. To gain a moment, he 
said: 

“ I will. Dear ; but only one of them is here. The other 
one — ” 

“ Which one is here ? ” 

‘‘ The boy. Sweetheart, our own Floyd.” 

Although she was shaking like a leaf, Vandecar saw that 
she was not fainting, and when she struggled to be free 
he released her. She staggered a little, and said help- 
lessly : 

“ Then, why ^ — why don’t you bring ^ — him to me ? ” 

“ I will, if you’ll sit down and let me tell you some- 
thing.” He knelt beside her and spoke tenderly: 


OF THE MISSING 


287 

Sweetheart, our children have been near us for months. 
They came to Ann and Horace — ” 

Fledra Vandecar gave a glad little cry. 

‘‘ It was he, then, the pretty boy that prayed ! Oh, 
Floyd, something told me! But you said he was here 
alone. Where is my girl.^^ ” 

“ That’s what I want to tell you, Fledra. Look at me, 
dear heart.” 

The eyes, wandering first from his face, then to the 
door, fell upon him. They seemed to demand the truth, 
and he dared not utter a lie to her. 

“ By some crooked work, which Everett and the squat- 
ter - — r” 

His words brought back Horace’s story. A strange 
horror paled her cheeks and widened her eyes. 

“ That man, the one who called himself her father, 
took her back to Ithaca. Is that what you wanted to 
tell me ? ” 

As she attempted to rise, Vandecar pushed her gently 
back into the chair and said: 

I’m going for her. Beloved, and Horace has already 
gone — Wait — wait ! ” 

Vandecar was at the door in an instant, and when he 
opened it Ann appeared, leading Floyd by the hand. 
Mrs. Vandecar’s eyes fastened themselves upon the boy, 
and, when Ann pushed him toward her, she rose and held 
out her arms. 

Floyd was taller than she, and he stood considering her 
calmly, almost critically. He had been told by Miss Shel- 
lington that he would see his mother, and as he looked 
a hundred things tore through his mind in a single instant. 
This little woman, with fluttering white hands extended 
toward him, was his — his very own ! He felt suddenly 
uplifted with a masculine desire to protect her. She 
looked so tiny, so frail! He was filled with strength and 


£88 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


power, and so glad was his heart that it sang loudly and 
thumped until he heard a buzzing behind his ears. Sud- 
denly he blurted out: 

“ I’d a known ye were mine if I’d a met ye any place ! ” 
Governor Vandecar hurriedly left them and telephoned 
for a special train to take him to Ithaca. He entered his 
library and summoned Katherine. He talked long to her 
in low tones, and when he had finished he put his arm 
about the weeping girl and said softly: 

“ And you’ll come with us, Katherine, dear, and help 
me bring back my girl.?’ I shall ask Ann to go with us.” 

“ Oh, uncle, dear, you know I will go ! And, oh, how 
glad I am that you’ve found them ! ” 

‘‘ Thank you, child. Now, if you’ll run away and make 
the necessary preparations, we’ll start immediately.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 


D uring the days of the passage through the Erie 
Canal, Fledra had remained on the deck of the scow 
when it was light. The spring days were beauti- 
ful, too beautiful to be in accord with her sadness. Yet 
only when they entered into Cayuga Lake did acute ap- 
prehension rise within her. They were now in familiar 
waters, and she knew the end would soon come. At every 
thought of Lem, Fledra shuddered; for never did his eyes 
rest upon her, nor did he approach her, but that she felt 
the terror of his presence — the sight of him sent a wave 
of horror through her. Much as she dreaded the wrath 
of Cronk, much more did she fear Crabbe’s eyes, when, 
half-covered with squinting lids, they pierced her like 
gimlets. Snatchet was her only comfort, and she lavished 
infinite affection upon him. Night crowded the day from 
over Cayuga, and still Fledra and Snatchet remained in 
the corner, near the top of the stairs. The girl watched 
pensively the lights upon the hills lose their steadiness, as 
the scow drew farther away from them, until with a final 
twinkle they disappeared into the darkness behind. The 
churning of the tug’s propeller dinned continually in 
Flea’s ears ; but was not loud enough to make inaudible the 
sound of a footstep. Lon came to the top of the stairs ; 
but did not speak. He shuffled to the boat’s bow, and 
with a mighty voice bawled to Burnes: 

“ Slack up a little. Middy ! I want to come aboard the 
tug.” 

The words floated back to Fledra, and she half-rose, but 

289 


290 


FROM THE VALLEY 


again sank to the deck. Lon was leaving her alone with 
Lem ! The tug stopped, and the momentum of the barge 
sent it close to the little steamer. When the gap between 
the boats was not too wide, Lon sprang to the stern of 
the tug, and again Middy’s small craft pulsated with life, 
and again the rope stretched taut between the two vessels. 

As the gloom of the night deepened, Fledra could no 
more discern the outline of the steamer ahead, only its 
stern light disclosing its position. For some moments 
she scarcely dared breathe. Suddenly a light burst over 
the crest of the hills opposite, and the edge of the moon’s 
disk rose higher and higher, until the glowing ball threw 
its soft, pale light over Cayuga and the surrounding 
country. Once more the tug took fonn, and the deck of 
the scow was revealed to the girl in all its murkiness. 
Shaking with anxiety, she allowed her eyes to rove about 
until they riveted themselves upon two glittering spots 
peering at her over the top step from the shadow of the 
stairway. A low growl from Snatchet did not disturb 
the fascination the evil eyes held for her. It seemed as 
if goblin hands reached out to touch her; as if super- 
natural objects and evil human things menaced her from 
all sides. The crouching figure of the scowman became 
more distinct as he sneaked over the top step and edged 
toward her. A sudden morbid desire came over the girl 
to throw herself into the water. She rose unsteadily to 
her feet, with Snatchet still clutched in her arms. She 
threw one appealing glance at the tug — then, before she 
could cry out or move, Lem was at her side. 

“ Don’t ye so much as open yer gab,” he muttered, “ or 
I’ll hit ye with this 1 ” 

The steel hook was held up dangerously near her face, 
and the threat of it rendered her dumb. 

“ Yer pappy be a playin’ me dirt, and I won’t let him. 
Ye’re goin’ to be my woman, if I has to lull ye! See.^ ” 


OF THE MISSING 


^91 


No sign of help came to the girl from the tug, nor dared 
she force a cry from her lips. 

“ Yer pappy says as how I can’t marry ye,” went on 
Lem, in the same whisper, “ and I don’t give a damn about 
that — only, ye don’t leave this scow to go to no hut ! 
Ye stay here with me!” 

Fledra had wedged herself more tightly into the corner, 
hugging the snarling Snatchet closer. As she backed, the 
scowman came nearer, his hot breath flooding her face. 

“ Put down that there dorg I ” he hissed. Snatchet did 
not cease growling, and the baring of his teeth sent Lem 
back a step or two. If he bites me, Flea, I’ll knock his 
brains clean plumb out of him I ” 

With this threat, the scowman came to her again, 
stretching out his left hand to touch her. Snatchet sent 
out a bark that was half-yelp and half-growl, and before 
the man could withdraw his fingers the dog had buried his 
teeth deep in them. With a wrathful cry, the scowman 
jumped back, then lunged forward, wrenched the dog from 
Fledra’s arms, and pitched him over the edge of the barge 
into the lake. The girl heard the dog give a frightened 
howl, and saw the splash of water in the moonlight as 
he fell. 

He was all she had — a yellow bit she had taken with 
her from the promised land, a morsel of the life that both 
she and Floyd loved. With a shove that sent Lem back- 
ward, she freed herself and peered over the side. 
Snatchet had come to the surface, and in his vain effort 
to reach the scow his small paws were making large 
watery rings, which contorted the reflection of the moon 
strangely. He seemed so little, so powerless in the vast 
expanse, that Fledra, forgetful of her skirts and the handi- 
cap they would put upon her, leaped from the scow. 
Lem saw the water close over her head, and for many 
seconds only little bubbles and ripples disturbed that part 


292 


FROM THE VALLEY 


of the lake where her body had sunk. An instant he 
stood hesitant, then he rushed to the bow. 

“Lon, Lon!” he roared. “Flea’s jumped over- 
board 1 ” 

The churning of the tug suddenly stopped, and the 
canalman saw Lon’s big body pass through the moonlight 
into the water. 

The scow was soon close to the tug, and together Lem 
and Middy Burnes examined the lake’s surface for a sight 
of the man and the girl. Many minutes passed. Then 
a shout from the rear sent Lem running to the stern of 
the scow which was now at a standstill. He looked down, 
and on Lon’s arm he saw Fledra, pressing Snatchet against 
her breast. With his other hand the squatter was cling- 
ing to the rudder. 

“ Here she is I ” Cronk called. “ Grab her up, Lem I ” 

The scowman relieved Lon of his burden and carried the 
half-drowned girl below, whither the squatter, dripping 
with water, quickly followed. Snatchet was directly in 
his path, and he kicked the dog under the table. At the 
yelp, Fledra lifted her head, and Lon bent over her. 

“ What’d ye jump in the lake for. Flea?” he asked. 

Still somewhat dazed, Fledra failed to answer. 

“ Were ye meanin’ to drown yerself ? ” 

The girl shook her head, and glanced fearfully at Lem. 
“Were ye a worryin’ her, Lem Crabbe?” demanded the 
squatter hoarsely. 

“ I were a tryin’ to kiss her,” growled Lem. “ A man 
can kiss his own woman, can’t he? And that dog bit me. 
Look at them fingers!” Through the dim candlelight 
Lem’s sullenness answered the dark look that Lon threw 
on him. 

“ I don’t give a damn for yer fingers,” Lon snarled, 
“ and she ain’t yer woman yet, and she wouldn’t be nuther, 
if ye weren’t the cussedest man livin’. Now listen while 


OF THE MISSING 


293 


I tell ye this: If ye don’t let that gal be, ye’ll never 
get her, and I’ll smack yer head off ye, if I has to say that 
again ! Do ye want me to say that ye can’t never have 
her? ” 

“ Nope,” cowered Lem. 

“ Then mind yer own business and get out of this here 
cabin! I’ll see to Flea.” 

Fledra had faith that Lon Cronk would do as he prom- 
ised. How often had there come to her mind the times 
when she was but a little girl the squatter had said when 
he would whip her, and she had waited in shivering terror 
through the long day until the big thief returned home — 
he never forgot his anger of the morning. Fledra winced 
as her imagination brought back the deliberate blows that 
had fallen upon her bare skin, and tears rushed to her 
lids at the memory of Floyd’s cries, when he, too, had 
suffered under the strength of the powerful squatter. She 
was glad she could now at least rest free from Lem until 
the hut was reached, and then, if only something should 
happen to soften Cronk’s heart, how hard she would work 
for him! 

The next morning the barge approached the squatter 
settlement, and Fledra was once more on deck. She won- 
dered what Floyd had said when he received her letter, 
and if he believed that she had gone of her own free will. 
What had Ann said — and Horace? The thought of her 
lover caused bitter tears to rain between her fingers. 
But she stifled her sobs, and a tiny, happy flutter bright- 
ened her heart when she thought of how she had saved 
them all. Below she heard a conversation between Lem 
and Lon, and listened. 

She first heard the voice of the squatter : “ It’s almost 

over, Lem, and then we’ll go back to stealin’ when ye 
get Flea. She can be a lot of use to us.” 


294 . 


FROM THE VALLEY 


But what ye goin’ to say to that feller if he comes 
up tomorry ? ” 

‘‘ He can go to hell ! ” growled Cronk. 

“ And ye won’t give the gal to him ? ” 

Nope.” 

In her fancy Fledra could see Lon draw the pipe from 
his lips to mutter the words to Lem. 

“ If ye take his money, Lon,” gurgled Lem, ye might 
have to fight with him if he don’t get Flea.” 

The listening girl crept to the staircase and strained 
her ears. 

‘‘ I kin fight,” replied Lon laconically. 

When, next day, the tug came to a standstill in front 
of the rocks near the squatter’s hut, Fledra went forward 
and touched Lon’s arm. Her eyes rested a moment upon 
him, before she could gather voice to say: 

“ Will you let me stay with you. Pappy Lon, for a few 
days ? ” 

“ I’ll let ye stay till I tell ye to go,” growled Lon, 
“ and I don’t want no sniveling, nuther.” 

“ When are you going to tell me to go ? ” 

“ When I like. Middy’s gittin’ the skiff ready to take 
ye out. Scoot there, and light a fire in the hut! Here 
be the key to the padlock.” 

Fledra’s heart rose a little with hope. He had not said 
that she had to go with Lem that day. After she had 
been rowed to the shore, she went slowly to the shanty, 
with a prayer upon her lips. She had no thought that 
Horace would try to save her, or that he would be able 
to keep her from Lem and Lon. She prepared the break- 
fasts for Cronk and Crabbe and for Middy with his two 
helpers. During the meal four pairs of eyes looked at 
the slim, lithe form as it darted to and fro, doing the 
many tasks in the littered hut. Lon Cronk was the only 
one not to lift his head as she passed and repassed. He 


OF THE MISSING 


295 


■ sat and thought moodily by the fire. At last he did lift 
his head, and Fledra’s solemn gray eyes, fixed gravely 
upon him, made the squatter ill at ease. 

‘‘ What ye lookin’ at.^ ” he growled. Keep your eyes 
I to hum, and quit a staring at me ! ” Fledra shrank back. 
|| “ And I hate ye in them glad rags ! ” Lon thundered out. 

I ‘‘Jerk ’em off, and put on some of them togs of Granny 
^ Cronk’s ! Yer a squatter, and ye’d better dress and talk 
!; like one! Do ye hear?” 

- “ Yes, Pappy Lon,” murmured Fledra, dropping her 

[ eyes. 

“ I ain’t said yet when ye was to go to Lem’s hut ; 

! but, when I do, don’t ye kick up no row, and ye’d best 
do as Lem tells ye, or he’U take the sass out of yer 
i hide ! ” 

“ I wish I could stay with you,” ventured Fledra sor- 
j rowfully; but to this Lon did not reply. After break- 
: fast she was left alone in the hut, and she could hear the 
I loud talking of the tugmen and see Lem working on the 
I scow. 

i Soon Middy Burnes’ tug steamed away toward Ithaca, 
and Fledra knew that she was alone with no creature be- 
tween her and Lem but Lon Cronk. 

When Lon and Lem returned, the hut was tidy. Fledra 
had hoped that if she made it so Lon might want her 
i to stay. She could be of much use about the shanty. 
Neither of the men spoke for awhile, and Fledra held her 
peace, as she sat by the low hut-window and gazed 
thoughtfully out upon the lake. In the distance she 
could see the east shore but dimly. Several fishing boats 
ran up the lake toward town. A flock of spring birds 
swept breezily over the water and sought the shade of 
the forest. Suddenly Lem rose up, stretched his legs, 
yawned, and said: 

“ I’m goin’ out, Lon, and I’ll be back in a little while. 


S96 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Ye’d best be a tbinkin’ of what I said,” he cautioned, 

“ and keep yer eyes skinned for travelers.” 

‘‘ All right. Don’t be gone long, Lem,” responded 
Lon. Fledra was not too abstracted to notice the uneasy 
tone in the squatter’s voice. 

“ Nope ; I’m only goin’ up the hill.” 

Lem had decided to reconnoiter for Scraggy. He was 
filled with a fear that she might be dead; for he had left 
her in the hut unconscious. He climbed the hill, and, 
rounding her shanty, drew nearer, and peeped into the 
window. A piece of bread lying on the table, and a few 
embers burning on the grate bolstered up his hope that 
he had not committed murder. He drew a sigh of re- * 
lief. j 

i 

Presently, after the departure of Lem, Lon stirred his j 
feet, dragged himself up in the chair, and turned upon 
the girl. Her heart beat wildly with hope. If he would ' 
allow her to stay in the hut with him, she would ask noth- j 
ing better. His consent would come as a direct answer 
to prayer. How hard she would work if Floyd and Hor- ' 
ace were safe! Cronk coughed behind his hand. i 

‘‘ Flea, turn yer head ’bout here ; I want to talk to ye,” 
he said. . 

The girl got up and came to his side. She was a ► 
pathetic little figure, drooping in great fear, and hoping ! 
against hope that he would spare her. She had dressed 
as he had ordered, and at her feet dragged a worn skirt j 
of Granny Cronk’s. With trembling fingers she hitched , 
the calico blouse up about her shoulders. 

Flea,” said Lon again, “ ye came home when I said i 
ye was to, and ye promised that ye’d do what I said, didn’t : 
ye?” j 

« Yes.” ' 

And ye remember well that I promised ye to Lem | 


OF THE MISSING 


m 


afore ye went away. I still be goin’ to keep that promise 
to Lem.” 

The bright blood that had swept her face paced back, 
leaving her ashen pale. She did not speak, but swayed 
a little, and supported herself on the top of his chair. 
Feeling her nearness, he shifted back, and the small hand 
fell limply. 

Before ye go to Lem,” pursued Lon, “ I want to tell 
ye somethin’.” Still Fledra did not speak. “ Ye know 
that it’ll save Flukey, if ye mind me, and that it don’t 
make no difference if ye don’t like Lem.” 

Wouldn’t it have made any difference if my mother 
hadn’t loved you. Pappy Lon.^ ” 

The question shot out in appeal, and Lon’s swarthy 
face shadowed darkly. 

‘‘ I never loved yer mother,” he drawled, sucking hard 
upon his pipe. 

“ Then you loved another woman,” went on Flea bit- 
terly, because I heard you tell Lem about her. JVould 
you have liked a man to give her to — Lem ? ” 

As quick as lightning in the smoke came the ghost- 
gray phantom, approaching from a dark corner of the 
shanty. Lon’s eyes were strained hard, and Fledra saw 
them widen and follow something in the air. She drew 
back afraid. The man was staring wildly, and only he 
knew why he groaned, as the wraith in the pipe-smoke 
broke around him and drifted away. Fledra brought him 
back by repeating: 

‘‘ Would ye have liked to have had Lem take her. Pappy 
Lon.? ” 

“ I’d a killed him,” muttered Lon, as if to himself. 
“But ye. Flea,” here he rose and brought down his fist 
with a bang, “ ye go where I send ye ! The woman’s dead. 
If she wasn’t, ye wouldn’t have to go to Lem.” 

To soften him, Fledra knelt down at his feet. 


298 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Pappy Lon,” she pleaded, “ you haven’t got her, any- 
how, and you haven’t got anybody but me. If you let 
me stay: — ” 

How he hated her ! How he would have liked to bruise 
the sweet, upturned face, marking the white cheeks with 
the impressions of his fists ! But he dared not. She 
would run away again — and to Lem he had given the 
opportunity to drag her to fathomless depths. 

Fledra misread his thoughts, and said quickly: 

“ I wouldn’t care if you beat me every day. Pappy 
Lon — only let me stay. I’ll work for my board. And 
won’t you tell me about the other woman : — I don’t mean 
my mother.” 

Then a diabolical thought flashed into the man’s mind. 
He, too, could make her suffer, even before she went to 
Lem. A smile twisted his lips, and he said slowly: 

‘‘ Yer mother ain’t dead. Flea.” 

« Not dead! ” 

‘‘ Nope, she ain’t dead.” 

“ Then where is she ? ” 

None of yer business ! ” 

Fledra clenched her hands and paled in terror. A 
mother somewhere living in the world, a woman who, if 
she knew, would not let her be sacrificed, who would save 
her from Lem, and from her father, too 1 

‘‘ Lon, Lon ! ” she cried, springing forward in despera- 
tion. ‘‘ Do you know where she is ? I want to know, 
too.” 

He flung her away, a grunt of satisfaction coming from 
his throat. 

“ And I ain’t yer daddy, nuther.” 

‘‘ Then you’re not Flukey’s father, either ? ” she whis- 
pered. 

‘‘Nope; yer pappy and mammy both be livin’ and 
waitin’ fer ye. They’ve been lookin’ fer ye fer years — 


01’ THE MISSING 


299 


and yet they’ll never git ye. Do ye hear, Flea.? I hate 
’em both so that I could kill ye — I could tear yer throat 
open with these ! ” The squatter put his strong, crooked 
fingers in the girl’s face. 

A sudden resolution pumped the blood to the girl’s 
cheeks. 

“ I’m not going to stay here ! ” was all she said. 

Lon lifted his fist and stood up. 

“ Where ye goin’? ” 

‘‘ Back to Tarrytown.” 

She was standing close to him, her blazing eyes daring 
him to strike her. 

“ What about Flukey ? ” 

“ You couldn’t have him, either, if — if he isn’t yours.” 

Lon walked to the door and opened it. 

“ Scoot if ye want to — I don’t care. But ye’ll re- 
member that I’ll kill that sick kid. Fluke, and Lem’ll put 
an end to the Tarrytown duffer what loves ye. I hate 
him, too ! ” 

Fledra dropped to the floor as if he had struck her. 

For some moments her senses were gone, and she opened 
her eyes only when Lon, vaguely alarmed, threw water in 
her face. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 


C RONK entered the scow sullenly and sat down. 
Lem was sitting at the table, bending over a tin 
basin in which he was washing his bitten fingers. 
The steel hook and its leather strappings lay on the 
table. 

“ I telled Flea,” said the squatter after a silence. 

“ Did ye tell her she was cornin’ to my boat tonight.^ ” 
asked Lem eagerly. 

‘‘ Nope ; but I telled her that she weren’t my gal.” 
‘‘Ye cussed fool!” cried Crabbe, jumping to his feet. 
“ Ye won’t keep her now, I bet that! ” 

Cronk smiled covertly. 

“ Aw, don’t ye believe it ! She be as safe stuck in 
that hut as if I’d nailed her leg to the floor. Ye don’t 
know Flea, ye don’t, Lem. She didn’t come back with 
us ’cause she were my brat, but ’cause we was goin’ to 
kill Flukey and Shellington. God ! how she w’iggled when 
I opened the door and telled her to scoot back to Tarry- 
town if she wanted to ! But I didn’t forgit to tell her what 
we’d do to them two others down there, if she’d go. She 
floundered down and up like a live sucker in a hot skillet. 
What a plagued fool she is! ” 

Lon sat back in his chair and laughed loudly. 

“ Ye’ll play with her till ye make her desprite,” snarled 
Lem, “ and when she be gone ye can holler the lungs out of 
ye, and she won’t come back. If ye’d left her to me, I’d 
a drubbed her till she wouldn’t think of Tarrytown. I 
says as how she comes to this scow tonight. Ye can’t 
dicker with me like ye can with that kid, Lon ! ” 

300 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 301 


Cronk narrowed his eyelids to slits and contemplated 
the scowman. 

I want to have a little fun with her afore ye git her,” 
he said. I love to see her damn face go white and red, 
and her teeth shut tight like a rat-trap. She won’t do 
none of them things when you git done with her, Lem.” 

Crabbe rubbed the length of his short arm with a coarse 
towel. 

“ Yep, I can make her forgit that she’s g 9 t blood 
what’ll come in her face,” chuckled he. ‘‘ ’Tain’t no fun 
ownin’ women, if ye can’t make ’em holler once in awhile. 
But ye didn’t say as how she were a cornin’ here tonight.” 

‘‘Nope, not tonight,” answered Lon; “’cause when I 
showed her that it didn’t make no difference ’bout her 
stayin’ whether she were mine or not, she just tumbled 
down like a hit ox. My ! but it were a fine sight ! ” 

Lem lifted the steel hook in deep reflection and caught 
the clasps together. 

“ Fm a wonderin’, Lon,” he said presently, “ if I’m to 
ever git her.” 

“ Yep, tomorry,” assured Lon. 

“Honest Injun.^” demanded Lem. 

“Honest Injun,” replied Lon. “If ye takes her to- 
night, she’ll only cut up like the devil. That’s the worst 
of them damn women, they be too techy when they come 
of stock like her.” 

“ I like ’em when they’re techy — it ain’t so easy to 
make ’em do what a man wants ’em to as ’tis t’other kind 
— say like Scraggy. I love a gal what’ll spit in yer 
face. God! what a lickin’ Flea’ll git, if she tries any of 
them fine notions of her’n on me ! For every kiss Shelling- 
ton gived her. I’ll draw blood outen her hide 1 ” Lem 
paused in his work, and then added in a stammering un- 
dertone, “ But I love the huzzy ! ” 

The other bent far forward to catch the scowman’s 


30 ^ 


FROM THE YALEEY 


words, delighting in the mental picture of Fledra’s lithe 
body writhing under the lash. The proud spirit of the 
girl would break under the physical pain ! 

Fledra was still lying on the bed when Lon returned 
to the hut. 

“ Git up and git supper I ” Cronk growled in her ear. 

Mechanically she rose, sliced a few cold potatoes into 
the skillet, and arranged the table for one person. 

‘‘ Put down two plates ! ” roared the squatter. 

“ I can’t eat, Lon,” Flea said in a whisper. 

He noticed that she had dropped the paternal prefix. 

“Put down another plate, I say!” he shouted. “Ye 
be goin’ to Lem’s tomorry, and ye’ll go tonight if ye 
put on any airs with me I See ? ” 

Fledra placed a plate for herself, and sat down oppo- 
site Lon. Choking, she crushed the food into her mouth 
and swallowed it with effort. For even one night’s res- 
pite she would suffer anything! 

After the dishes were cleared away Fledra knelt by the 
open window, and peered out upon the water. She turned 
tear-dimmed eyes toward the college hill, and allowed her 
mind to travel slowly over the road she and Floyd had 
taken in September. Rapidly her thoughts came to the 
Shellington home, and she imagined she saw her brother 
and Horace listening to Ann as she read under the light 
of the red chandelier. How happy they all looked, how 
peaceful they were ^ — and by her gift ! She breathed a 
sigh as the shadows crept long over the darkening lake. 

She glanced at the clock, and counted from its dial the 
hours until morning. She wished that the sun would 
never rise; that some unexpected thing would snatch her 
from the hut before the night-shades disappeared into the 
dawn. Cronk moved, and the girl turned with a startled 


OF THE MISSING 


303 


face. How timid she had grown of late ! She remem- 
bered distinctly that at one time she had loved the chirp 
of the cricket, the mournful croak of the marsh frogs; 
blit tonight they maddened her, filled her with an ominous 
fear such as she had never before felt. When Lon saved 
her from drowning, and had scathed Lem for his actions, 
she had hoped — oh, how she had hoped ! : — that he would 
let her fill Granny Cronk’s place. She glanced at the 
squatter again. 

Lon was staring out upon the lake with eyes somber 
and restless, eyes darkening under thoughts that threshed 
through his brains like a whirlwind. He was face to face 
with a long-looked-for revenge. Through the pain of Flea 
he could still see that wraith woman who had haunted 
him all the past-shadowed years. He believed with all 
his soul that then Midge would sink into his arms, silent 
in her spirit of thankfulness, and would always stay with 
him until he, too, should be called to join her; for Lon 
had never once doubted that in some future time he would 
be with his woman. If anyone had asked him during the 
absence of Flea and Flukey which one of them he would 
rather have had back in the hut, he would undoubtedly 
have chosen the girl; for well he knew that she was capa- 
ble of suffering more than a boy. Still, he moved un- 
easily when he thought of the soft bed and the kindly 
hands that were ministering to the son of his enemy. 

Suddenly the squatter dragged his pipe from his lips 
and said: 

“ Look about here. Flea ! ” 

The girl turned her head. 

“ What, Pappy Lon ? ’’ she questioned. 

Keep yer mouth shet ! ” commanded Lon. I’ll do 
the talkin’ fer this shanty.” 

Then, seeing her cowering spirit racked by fear, he 
grinned broadly. Fledra sank back. 


S04 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I’ve always said as how I were a goin’ to make money 
out of ye, and I’ve found a chance where, if Lem ain’t a 
fool, he’ll jine in, too. Will I tell ye? ” Lon’s ques- 
tion brought the dark head closer to him. “Ye needn’t 
speak if ye don’t want to,” sneered he ; “ but I’ll tell 
ye jest the same! Do ye know who’s goin’ to own ye 
afore long? ” Fledra’s widening eyes questioned him, 
while her lips trembled. “ I can see that ye wants to find 
out. Does ye know a young fellow by the name of 
Brimbecomb? ” Observing that she did not make an ef- 
fort to speak, Lon proceeded with a perceptible drawl. 
“ Well, if the cat’s got yer tongue. I’ll wag mine a bit in 
yer stead. Brimbecomb’s offered to buy ye, and, if Lem 
says that it’ll be all right, then I says yep, too.” 

Fledra found her voice uttering unintelligible words. 
She was slowly advancing on her knees toward the squat- 
ter, her face working into strong, mature lines. 

“ Jest keep back there,” ordered Lon, “ and don’t put 
on no guff with me! Ye can do as ye please ’bout goin’ 
away. I won’t put out my hand to keep ye; only, re- 
member, if ye go, what comes to the folks in Tarry town! 
Now, then, did ye hear what I said about Brimbecomb? ” 
Fledra nodded, her eyelids quivering under his stare. 
“ Yer pretty enough to take the fancy of any man. Flea, 
and ye’ve took two, and it’s up to ’em both to fight over 
ye. The man what pays most gits ye, that’s all.” 

The girl lifted one hand dazedly. 

“ I’d rather go with Lem,” she muttered brokenly. 

“ It don’t make no matter to me what you’d ruther 
have. Ye go where yer sent, and that’s all.” 

Only Fledra’s sobs broke the silence of the next five 
minutes. She dared not ask Lon Cronk any questions. 

Presently, without warning, the man turned upon her. 

“ He’s a cornin’ here tonight, mebbe.” 

“Ye mean — oh. Pappy Lon! Let me go to Lem! 


OF THE MISSING 


305 


I’ll go, and I won’t say no word ! . . . I’ll go now ! ” 

She rose, her knees trembling. 

“ Sit down ! ” Lon commanded. 

Used to obeying even his look, Fledra dropped back 
to the floor. 

“ It ain’t given to ye to go to Lem jest ’cause ye want 
to,” he said. ‘‘ As I says, that young feller is cornin’ here 
tonight to talk with me and Lem. I already told him 
that he could take ye ; but Lem hain’t yet give his word.” 

Fledra glanced out of the window at the scow. Lem 
was there, arranging the boat for her reception in his 
crude, homely way. She was sure the scowman would 
not give her up. The thought brought Ann more vividly 
into her mind. If Everett came for her, and Lem held 
to his desire, Miss Shellington’s happiness would be as- 
sured. The handsome young lawyer would return to 
Tarrytown, back to the woman who loved him. 

Fledra rose with determination in her face. Suddenly 
Lem had loomed before her as a friend. She moved un- 
easily about the shanty, Lon making no move to stay her. 
For awhile she worked aimlessly, with furtive glances at 
Cronk. 

“ Set down, Flea,” ordered Lon presently. ‘‘Ye give 
me the twitches. If ye can’t set still, crawl to bed till,” 
he glanced her over, as she paused to catch his words, — 
“ till one of yer young men’ll come to git ye.” 

It was the chance Fledra had been longing for. She 
backed from him through the opening of Granny Cronk’s 
room and closed the door. For one minute she stood 
panting. Then she walked to the window, threw back 
the small sash, and slipped through. Once in the open 
air, she shot toward the scow, and in another moment had 
scurried up the gangplank and into the living-room. 

When he saw her, Lem’s lips fell away from his pipe, 
and he rose slowly and awkwardly; but no shade of sur- 


306 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


render softened the hard lines settled about the mouth of 
the panting girl. 

“ Lem,” she gasped, “ has Papp;^ Lon said anything to 
ye about Mr. Brimbecomb.^ ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ Are ye goin’ to let me go with hin^.^ ” 

‘‘ Nope.” 

“ Will ye swear, Lem, that when he comes to the hut 
ye’ll say that he can’t have me.^ ” 

Lem’s jaw dropped, and he uttered a throat sound, 
guttural and rough. 

“ Do ye mean. Flea, that ye’d rather come to the scow 
than go with the young, good-lookin’ cuss .? ” 

“ Yes, that’s what I mean ; and Pappy Lon says he’s 
cornin’.” 

Lem made a spring toward her. 

“ Don’t touch me now ! ” she cried, shuddering. Don’t 
— yet ! I’m cornin’ back by and by.” 

Before he could place his hands upon her, Fledra had 
gone down the plank. From the small boat-window Lem 
could discern the little figure flitting among the hut 
bushes; in another moment she had crawled through the 
open jvindow into Lon’s hut. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 


W HEN Everett arrived in Ithaca he made arrange- 
ments with the conductor of the local train run- 
ning to Geneva to have it slow down at Sher- 
woods Lane. 

A sudden jerk of the engine as it halted at the path 
that led to Lon’s hut brought Brimbecomb to his feet, 
and he hurried from the car with muttered thanks and a 
substantial consideration to the conductor. While the 
train rumbled away in the distance, he stood in the shadow 
of a large pine tree by the track and looked about to get 
his bearings. Suddenly he heard not far from him the 
faint, weird cry of an owl. Instantly he was on the alert ; 
for there was something familiar in the melancholy sound. 
It took him back to a night in Tarrytown, when he had 
cast a woman into the cemetery, and he remembered that 
she had said she lived in Ithaca. Superstition sent him 
deeper into the shadow for a moment; but he recovered 
himself and, shaking his shoulders, went his way toward 
the lake with a muttered oath. 

So dense was the woodland bordering the path, and so 
dark was the shadow of the bushes in the twilight, that 
he had almost to feel his way down the dark lane. He 
had not proceeded more than fifty yards when he saw a 
light gleaming through the underbrush from the opposite 
side of the gulch that ran parallel with the narrow road. 
He came to a path that branched in the direction of the 
light, and picked his way along it. Soon he crossed a 
primitive bridge and, climbing a little incline, paused be- 
fore a dilapidated shanty. He knocked peremptorily on 
the door; but only a droning voice humming a monoto- 
307 


308 


FROM THE VALLEY 


nous tune made answer. Again he knocked, this time 
harder. The singing ceased, and after a shuffling of feet 
the door opened. 

Standing before him, her hair bedraggled as it had 
been the first time he saw her, was the woman who had 
claimed to be his mother, the woman he had thrown into 
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Brimbecomb, in his astonish- 
ment, almost fell back into the gulch. But he quickly 
gathered his scattered wits and, forcing a face of ef- 
frontery, doffed his hat. 

“ Can you tell me,” his agitation did not allow him 
to speak calmly, — “ can you tell me, please, where Lon 
Cronk lives? ” 

Although his question was low and broken. Scraggy 
caught each word. 

“ Down to the edge of the lake. Mister,” she replied. 
‘‘ It’s a goin’ to be a dark night to be out in, ain’t it ? ” 

In his relief, Brimbecomb drew a long breath. She 
had not recognized him! The dim light of the candle 
showed him that the same dazed expression still remained 
in her faded eyes. The smirk on her face, the crouch 
of her emaciated figure, about which the rags swirled in 
the wind, the dismal hut, and the loneliness of her sur- 
roundings, made such a picture of woe that Everett 
shuddered and hastened to get the information, that he 
might hurry away from the awful place. 

‘‘ Is there a scow down there that belongs to — ” 

That there scow belongs to Lem Crabbe,” broke in 
Scraggy. Yep, it corned in this mornin’. Lem be a 
good man, a fine man, the bestest man ye ever see.” 

Brimbecomb took some money from his pocket and, 
placing it in her fingers, hurried away. 

Fledra heard Everett when he came to Lon’s shanty 
door and knocked. She heard the squatter call him by 


OF THE MISSING 


309 


name. She knew now that the only hope for Ann’s love 
for Brimbecomb was that Lem would keep his word and 
insist upon Lon’s holding faith with him. 

Cronk ordered her roughly to come to him. When she 
appeared, the two men looked at her keenly. As she 
evinced no surprise at his presence, the lawyer knew that 
she had been told of his coming. He made an attempt 
to take her hand; but, as once before, Fledra flung her 
arms behind her. 

“ I ’low as she don’t like ye, young feller,” said Lon, 
with a laugh. 

Does it matter to you, Cronk ” retorted Brimbe- 
comb. 

“Not a damned bit ! ” 

“ Then go and make your arrangements with your one- 
armed friend and leave your daughter here with me.” 

“Ye be in too big a hurry, my fine buck! Lem ain’t 
as willin’ as I be; but I’ll jest go down to the scow and 
speak with him.” 

“ I want to go with you. Pappy Lon,” cried Fledra. 

“Ye stay right here, gal,” commanded Cronk. Full 
in her face he slammed the door and left her alone with 
Brimbecomb. 

Everett stood looking at her for fully a minute, and 
as steadily she eyed him back. 

“ I have come for you,” he said quietly. “ I could not 
leave you with these persons.” 

Fledra curled her lip scornfully. 

“ I lived with them a long time before I saw any of 
you folks,” she said bitterly. 

The girl did not reason now. She knew that she must 
send him back, that this was her only way to repay the 
woman who had saved her brother. So she went up to 
Brimbecomb appealingly, her eager eyes gleaming into 
his. 


310 FROM THE VALLEY. OF THE MISSING 


‘‘ I want you to go back to Tarrytown,” she said, “ and 
go to Shellingtons’, and see Sister Ann. She’s dying to 
have you back. And you belong to her, because you 
promised her, and she promised you. Will you go back.? ” 
When I wish to, I will ; but not yet,” muttered Everett. 
He had been taken aback at her words, and at that moment 
could think of no way to compromise with her. She 
was so near that he threw out his hands and caught her. 
Forcibly he drew her face close to his, his lips whitening 
under the spell of her nearness. 

“ Never, never will I let you go away from me again! ” 
he was saying passionately, when Cronk opened the door 
and stepped in. 

The squatter gave no evidence that he had seen 
Everett’s action. He left the door open, through which 
the breeze flung the dust and the dead leaves. 

“ Lem’ll see ye in the scow,” he said. ‘‘ I ain’t got 
nothin’ to say ’bout this ; — only as how Flea goes to one 
or the other of ye.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 


N ot, more than half an hour after Everett had 
reached Sherwoods Lane, Governor Vandecar’s 
train came to a halt at the same place, and the 
party, consisting of the governor, Ann Shellington, and 
Katherine Vandecar, made ready to step out into the 
night. 

“ Please draw up to the switch,” the governor in- 
structed the conductor, ‘‘ and I’ll hail you as soon as 
we return. Keep an ear out for my call.” 

“ Yes, Sir,” replied the conductor ; “ but you’d better 
take this lantern — it’s sure dark down by that lake, Sir. 
And you can signal me with the light.” 

Ann and Katherine clasped hands, and, aided by the 
light which Vandecar held high, slowly followed him. So 
stern did the tall man seem in the deep gloom that neither 
girl spoke to him as they stumbled down the hill. They 
halted with thumping hearts in sight of the dark lake. 
All three noticed a small light twinkling through the Cronk 
window, and, without knocking. Governor Vandecar flung 
wdde the door of Lon’s hut and stepped in. 

The squatter sat on the floor, whittling a stick; Eledra 
crouched by the window. As the door opened, she raised 
her eyes wonderingly; but when she saw a tall stranger 
she dropped them again — someone had lost his way and 
needed Pappy Lon. Cronk looked up and, recognizing 
Vandecar, suddenly slid like a serpent around the hut wall 
until he was in touching distance of the girl. 

“ Ye’d better not come any closer, Mister,” he said 

311 


FROM THE VALLEY 


3ia 

darkly. “ I has this, ye see — and Flea’s meat’s as soft 
as a chicken’s!” He raised his knife menacingly; but 
dropped it slowly at sight of Ann and Katherine. 

“ Sister Ann ! ” breathed Fledra. 

Ann’s fingers grasped Vandecar’s arm spasmodically; 
but, without glancing back at her, he shook them off. His 
brow had gathered deep lines at Lon’s words, and now his 
unswerving gray eyes bent low to the squatter. Under 
the steady gaze Cronk looked down and began to whittle. 

In after days Ann could always conjure up the picture 
before her. Fledra looked so infinitely young and mel- 
ancholy, as her eyes fixed themselves in wide terror upon 
Cronk. Out of the ragged blouse rose the proud, dark 
head, and the lovely face was almost overshadowed by two 
tightly clenched fists. Instead of falling into her arms, as 
Ann had imagined she would, the girl only sank lower to 
the floor, her face ghastly in a new horror. Miss Shelling- 
ton’s patience gave way as she stared at Van decar — his 
delay was imperiling Fledra’s life; for, if ever a wicked 
face expressed hate and murder, the squatter’s did now\ 
She turned appealing eyes to Katherine, and took a step 
forward; but the latter held her and whispered: 

“Wait, wait a moment, Ann! Wait until Uncle has ^ 
spoken ! ” 

The whisper broke the silence, and Fledra turned her 
eyes from Lon. She wondered dazedly who the stranger 
was, and why he had come with Ann. She thought of 
Horace, and a pain shot through her heart. She was 
aware that his sister had come for her; but no thought 
entered her mind to give up the yoke that would soon be 
too heavy to bear. Then Governor Vandecar began to 
speak, and Fledra looked at him. 

“ I have come to take back my own, Lon Cronk,” said ' 
he, “ that of which you robbed me many years ago.” 

“ I ain’t nothin’ that belongs to ye, and ye’d better go 


OF THE MISSING 


31S 


back where ye corned from, Mister — and don’t — come 
no nearer 1 ” 

As the squatter spoke, his lips spread wide over his 
teeth, and he began picking up and laying down the bits 
of white wood. He did it deliberately, and no one pres- 
ent imagined how the sight of Vandecar tore at his heart- 
1 strings. Cronk could tolerate no robbing him of his re- 
I venge, no taking away his chance of soothing the haunting 
spirit of his dead woman. 

Again Ann touched the governor’s arm. 

‘‘ Don’t, Dear ! ” he said, pushing her back a little. 
“ Lon Cronk — I want to tell you — a story.” 

Cronk made no response; only stooped over and gath- 
ered a few slender whittlings, and stacked them up among 
the others. There was an intense, biting silence, until 
!the governor spoke again. 

I “ Nineteen years ago, when I lived in Syracuse, there 
I came to me an opportunity to convict a man of theft. 
Then I was young and happy; I knew nothing of deep 
I misery, or of — deep love.” The hesitation on his last 
words brought a shake from the squatter’s shoulders. 
‘‘ This man, as I have said, was a thief, admitted his crime 
to me ; but, at the time of his conviction, he pleaded with 
me that he might go home for a little while to see his wife, 
who was ill. But of course I had no authority to do 
that.” 

A dark shade flashed over Cronk’s face, followed by one 
of awful suffering. 

“ Yep, ye had,” he repeated parrot-like ; “ ye might 
have let him go.” 

‘‘ But I couldn’t,” proceeded the governor, ‘‘ and the 
man was taken away to prison without one glance at the 
woman who was praying to see him. For she loved him 
more — than he did her.” 

“ That’s a lie ! ” burst from Cronk’s dry puckered lips. 


314 * 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ I repeat, she loved him well,” insisted Vandecar; “ for 
every breath she took was one of love for him.” 

In the hush that followed his broken sentence, Lon 
moved one big foot outward, then drew it back. 

‘‘ Afterward — I mean a few hours after the man was 
taken away — I began to think of him and his agony 
over the woman, and I went out to find her. She was in 
a little hut down by the canal, — an ill-fumished, one- 
room shanty, — but the woman was so sweet, so little, yet 
so ill, that I thought only of her.” 

A dripping sweat broke from every pore in Lon’s 
body, and drops of water rolled down his dark face. 
He groped about for another stick of wood, as if blind. 

‘‘ She was too young, too small, Lon Cronk, for the 
cross she had to bear.” 

Lon threw up his head. 

“ Jesus ! what a blisterin’ memory ! ” he said. 

His throat almost smothered the words. Ann began to 
sob; but Katherine stood like a stone image, staring at 
the squatter. 

The governor’s low voice went on again: 

“ She was sicker than any woman I’d ever seen be- 
fore, and when I w^as there her little baby was bom. 
I held her hands until she died. I remember every mes- 
sage she sent you, Cronk. She told me to tell you how 
much she loved you, and how the thought of your good- 
ness to her and your love would go down with her to 
the grave. If I could have saved her for you, I should 
have done so; but she had to go. Then I wrote and 
asked you if I should care for her body.” 

An evil look overspread the squatter’s face. The 
misty tears cleared, and he began to scrape again at the 
wood. He fiashed a murderous look upward. 

“ Ye could have left her dead in the hut, as long as 
yer killed her ! ” said he. 


Oi: THE MISSING 


315 


Not heeding the interruption, Vandecar went on : 

But you sent me no word, and, because I was sorry, 
and because — ” 

The knife slipped from Lon’s stiffened fingers, and 
a long groan fell from his lips. 

“I didn’t get no word from ye!” he burst out. “I 
didn’t know nothin’ till they told me she were dead.” 
The man’s head dropped down on his chest. 

Relentlessly Vandecar spoke again: 

Because I could not give you to her when she wanted 
you, and because she had suffered so, I took her body and 
placed it in our family plot. I went to the prison to 
tell you this, so that you could go to her grave whenever 
you wished; but you had escaped the night before I ar- 
rived there, and I never associated you with my great 
loss.” 

The revenge Cronk had planned upon this man sud- 
denly lost its savor before the vividly drawn picture. 
He did not remember that Vandecar had come for his girl; 
he had in mind only the wee, sweet squatter woman so 
long dead. 

“ Didn’t the warden tell ye that I hit him, Mister,” 
he groaned, “ and that I smashed the keeper when they 
telled me about her, and — and that the strait- jacket 
busted my collarbone when I was tryin’ to get out to her.? ” 

Vandecar shuddered and shook his head; but before he 
could speak Cronk wailed dazedly: 

‘‘Ye might have come and telled me yerself, ye might 
a knowed how I wanted ye to ! ” 

“ I told you that I did come and you were gone,” 
Vandecar answered emphatically. 

“ Ye didn’t think how I loved her, how I’d a dreamed 
of huggin’ my own little brat 1 ” 

Vandecar interrupted again: 

“ I took the baby with me, Lon Cronk.” At the word 


316 


FROM THE VALLEY 


‘‘ baby,” Lon dragged his heavy hand backward across 
his eyes. “ The baby,” continued the governor, “ was no 
bigger than this, — a wee bit of a girl, such as all big 
men love to father.” 

The squatter stood rigidly up against the wall, until his 
head almost reached the ceiling. His fierce eyes centered 
themselves upon Vandecar. 

“ If I’d a knowed. Mister,” he mumbled, “ that ye’d 
took my little Midge’s hand in yer’n, that ye soothed 
her when she was a howlin’ fer me, I wouldn’t have cribbed 
yer kids — I’ll be damned if I would ’ave ! But I hated 
ye — Christ ! how I hated ye ! I could only think how 
ye wouldn’t help me.” He shuddered, wiped his wet lips, 
and went on, “ After that I went plumb to hell. There 
weren’t no living with me in prison, lessen I were strapped 
in the jacket till my meat were scorched. It seemed as 
how it made my hurt less for her to have my own skin 
blistered. Then, when I got out of prison, I never once 
took my eyes offen ye, and when yer w'oman gived ye 
Flea and Flukey — ” 

A cry from Fledra brought all eyes upon her save 
Lon’s. 

“ When yer woman gived ye the two kids,” he went 
on, “ I let ’em stay long enough for ye to love ’em ; 
then I stole ’em away. But, if I’d a knowed that ye 
tooked mine — ” He moved forward restlessly and al- 
most whispered, “ Mister, will ye tell me how the little 
’un looked.?^ And were it warm and snuggly.? Did ye 
let it lay ag’in’ ye — and sleep ? ” The miserable, ques- 
tioning voice rose in demand, but lowered again. “ Did 
ye let it grab hold of yer fingers — oh, that were what 
I wanted more’n anythin’ else ! And that’s why I stealed 
yours ; so ye’d know what sufferin’ was. If ye’d only 
telled me. Mister — if ye’d only telled me ! ” 

Vandecar groaned — groaned for them all, no more for 


OF THE MISSING 


sn 


himself and for his gentle wife than for the great hulk 
of a man wrestling in agony. Tears rose slowly to his 
lids ; but he dashed them away. 

‘‘ Cronk,” he cried, “ Cronk, for God’s sake, don’t — 
don’t! I’ve borne an awful burden all these years, and 
every time I’ve thought of her I’ve thought of you and 
wondered where you were.” 

“ I were with my little woman in spirit,” the squatter 
interrupted, “ when I weren’t tryin’ to get even with 
you. Mister, will ye swear by God that ye telled me the 
truth about the baby ? ” 

“ I swear by God 1 ” repeated Vandecar solemnly. 

“ And I believe ye. I could a been good, if I’d a 
had the little kid awhile. It were a bit of her, a little, 
livin’ bit. I could a been, but I wasn’t, a good man. I 
loved to lash Flukey and Flea. I loved to make the 
marks stand out on their legs and backs. And I tried 
to I’arn Flukey to be a thief, and Flea were a goin’ to 
Lem tomorry. It were the only way I lived — the only 
way 1 ” Cronk trailed on as if to himself. “ The woman 
earned and earned and haunted me, till my mind were al- 
most gone, and I allers seed the little kid’s dead face 
ag’in’ her, and allers she seemed to tell me to haggle the 
life outen yer kids; and haggle I did, till they runned 
away, and then I went after ’em, and Flea — ” 

Vandecar stopped the speaker with a wave of the hand. 

‘‘ Then you brought her back here, and I discovered 
that she was mine, and I came for her. Lon Cronk, you 
give me back my girl, and I’ll,” he whitened to the very 
lips, and repeated, — “ and I’ll give you back yours 1 ” 

With a sweep of the arm Vandecar pushed Katherine 
forward. The very air grew dense with anxiety. Ann 
clutched Katherine by the arm as if to stay her move- 
ment, as if to keep her from the dazed squatter. His 
confession of the kidnapping and his uncouth appearance 


318 


FROM THE VALLEY 


forced Miss Shellington to try and protect her gentle 
friend from his contact. But Katherine loosened Ann’s 
fingers in stony silence. Only a choking sound from 
Fledra broke the quietude. She was staring into Lon’s 
face, and he was flashing from her to Katherine glances 
that changed and rechanged like dark clouds passing over 
the heaven’s blue. He saw Katherine, so like his dead 
wife, bow her fair head before him. He noted her 
trembling fingers pressed into pink palms, her slender 
body grow tense again and again, relaxing only with 
spontaneous sobs. That he could touch the fragile young 
creature, that he might listen to the call of his heart 
and take her as his own, had not yet been fully forced 
upon him. The meaning of Governor Vandecar’s words 
seemed to leave his mind at intervals; then his expres- 
sion showed that he realized the truth of them. He 
swayed forward; but crouched back once more against the 
wall. Fledra rose silently to her feet, her ready intelli- 
gence grasping the great fact that she was free, that the 
magnificent stranger had come for her, that he claimed her 
as his. She was free from Lem, from Lon, free to go 
back to Flukey. Lem’s menacing shadow had lifted 
slowly from her life, cast away by her own blood. For 
an instant there rose rampant in her breast the desire to 
turn and fly, before another chance should be given Lon 
to exert his authority over her. Then something snapped 
in her head, and, unconscious, she sank noiselessly to the 
floor. No one noticed her. She was like a small prey 
over which two great forces ruthlessly fought and tore 
at human flesh and human hearts. 

Vandecar gently touched Katherine’s arm; but her feet 
were powerless to move. 

Katherine,” the governor groaned, “ don’t you re- 
member that you cried over him and your mother, and 
that — ” 


OI' THE MISSING 


319 


“ Yes, yes ! ” Katherine breathed. She was trying to 
still the beating of her heart, trying to thrust aside a 
great, revolting fear; yet she knew intuitively that the 
squatter was her father, and remembered how the re- 
counting of her mother’s death had touched her. In 
one flashing thought, she recalled how she had longed 
for a mother, and how she had turned away when other 
girls were being caressed and loved. But never had it 
entered her mind to imagine that her parents were like 
this. The picture of the hut in which the wee woman 
had died rose within her — the death agony had been 
so plainly described. The tall, shrinking, sobbing man 
against the wall was her father! Even that afternoon, 
when Governor Vandecar had told her of her birth and 
her mother’s death, and of her father in the lake hut, 
she had not imagined him like this man. Yet something 
pleaded for him, some subtle, gentle spirit hovering near 
seemed to drag her forward. She shuddered, slipped 
from Vandecar’s arms, and crouched down before the 
squatter. She turned a livid, twitching face up to his, 
her eyes beseeching his with infinite compassion. All 
that was beautiful in the gentle, soulful girl broke over 
Ann like a surging sea. This girl, who had been brought 
up in a beautiful home, always attended with loving kind- 
ness, was casting her lot with a man so low and vile that 
another person would have turned away in disgust. Miss 
Shellington’s mind recalled her girlhood days, in which 
Katherine had been an intimate part. She could not bear 
it. She took an impulsive forward step; but Vandecar 
gripped her. 

“ Stay,” came sternly from his lips, ‘^stay! But — ^ 
but God pity her 1 ” 

The next seconds were laden with biting agony such 
as neither the governor nor Ann had ever experienced. 
Katherine pleaded silently with the man above her for 


FROM THE VALLEY 


sm 

paternal recognition. Suddenly he drew away from the 
kneeling girl and shrank into the corner, pressing the 
wall with his great weight until the rotting boards of 
the shanty creaked behind him. Only now and then was 
his mind equal to the task of owning her. Gathering 
strength to speak, Katherine sobbed: 

“ Father, Father, I never knew of you until today — 
I didn’t know, I didn’t know ! ” 

In her agony she did not notice the fierce eyes melt 
with tenderness; but Vandecar saw it with a tumultuous 
heart. He was waiting to claim the little figure on the 
floor, that he might take her back to her mother. In 
that way he would retrieve his own past errors and in 
a measure redeem the misspent life of the thief. He saw 
Cronk smooth his brow with a shaking hand, as if to 
wip away from his befuddled brain the cobwebs of in- 
decision and time-gathered shadows. His lips, drawn 
awry with intensity, opened only to drone; 

“ Pretty little Midge, I thought as how ye were dead ! 
And ye’ve come back to yer man, a lovin’ him as much 
as ever ! God — God ! ” He raised streaming eyes up- 
ward, and then finished, “ God ! And there be a God, 
no matter how I said there wasn’t! He didn’t let ye 
die when I were pinched!” With a mighty strength he 
swept the girl from the floor and turned mad eyes upon 
Vandecar. 

She ain’t dead. Mister — I thought she were ! Take 
back yer brat, and keep yer boy — and God forgive 
me ! ” 

So tender was his last petition, that it seemed but a 
breath whispered into the infinite listening ear of the God 
above. Katherine, like Fledra, had lapsed into uncon- 
sciousness. 

“She’s fainted!” cried Ann. “Oh, Katherine, poor, 
pretty little Katherine ! ” 


OF THE MISSING 


321 

“ Help her, Ann ! ” urged Vandecar. Do something 
for her ! ’’ 

He did not wait to see Ann comply; but turned to 
Fledra, who, still wrapped in unconsciousness, lay 
crouched on the floor, her dark curls massed in confusion. 
Granny Cronk’s blouse had fallen away, leaving the rounded 
shoulders bare and gleaming in the faint yellow light. 

The father gathered the daughter into his arms with 
passionate tenderness. At first he did not try to revive 
her; but sat down and held her close, as if he would never 
let her go. Tears, the product of weary ages of wait- 
ing, fell on her white, upturned face, and again he mur- 
mured thanksgivings into her unheeding ear. For many 
moments only the words of Ann could be heard, as she 
tried to reason with Cronk to release Katherine for a 
moment. 

“Lay her down, won’t you.^ She’s ill. Please, let 
me put water on her face!” 

“Nope,” replied Lon; “she won’t git away from me 
ag’in. She’s Midge, my little Midge, my little woman, 
and she’s mine I ” 

“Yes, yes,” answered Ann, “I know she’s yours; but 
do you want her to die ? ” 

With his great hands still locked about Katherine, 
Cronk looked down on her lovely face, crushed against 
his breast. She was a counterpart of the woman who 
had lived in another hut with him, and his dazed mind had 
lost the intervening years. Midge had come out of the 
prison shadows, and the big squatter had turned back 
two decades to meet her. 

“ She’s only asleep,” he said simply ; “ she allers slep’ 
on my breast. Missus. She’d never let me put her off’n 
my arm a minute. And I didn’t want to, nuther. She 
were allers af eared of ghosts — allers, allers ! And I 
kep’ her close like this. She ain’t dead, Ma’m.” 


S22 


FROM THE VALLEY 


His voice was free from anger and passion. Bj dint 
of persuasion, at length Ann forced him to release Kath- 
erine and to aid her while she bathed the girl’s white face 
with water. 

Katherine was still limp and bewildered when, ten 
minutes later, Fledra opened her eyes and looked up into 
her father’s face. The past hour had not returned to 
her memory, and she drew quickly away. Of late she 
had become timid, always on the defensive; and when 
Ann spoke to her she held out her arms. 

“ Fm afraid! ” she whimpered. “ I want to go to Sister 
Ann.” 

But Vandecar held her fast as Miss Shellington knelt 
on the hut floor at his side. 

“Fledra, listen to me! This is your own father, Dear. 
Don’t draw away from him. He came with me for you. 
We’re going to take you back to your mother and little 
Floyd.” 

It seemed an eternity to the waiting man before Fledra 
received him. There were many things she had to reason 
away. It was necessary first to dispense entirely with 
Lon Cronk, to feel absolutely free from Lem. Until then, 
how could she feel secure.? The eyes bent upon hers 
affected her strangely. They were spotted like Flukey’s, 
and had the same wick of not moving when they re- 
ceived another’s glance. Then Ann’s exclamation seemed 
to awaken her lethargic soul, and she seized upon the word 
“ mother.” 

“ Mother, Mother ! ” she stumbled, “ oh, I want her, 
Sister Ann! I want her! Will you take me to her? 
She’s sweet and — and mine ! ” She made the last state- 
ment in a low voice directly to Vandecar. 

“ Yes, and I’m your father, Fledra,” he whispered. 
He longed for her to be glad in him — longed now as 
never before. 


OF THE MISSING 


32S 


Fledra’s eyes sought Cronk’s. He had forgotten her; 
Katherine alone held his attention. Timidly she raised 
her arms and drew down her father’s face to hers. 

“ I’m glad, I’m awful glad that you’re mine — and 
you’re Floyd’s, too. Oh, I’m so glad! And you say — * 
my mother — ” 

‘‘Yes, Dear,” Vandecar murmured, deeply moved; “a 
beautiful mother, who is waiting and longing for her girl. 
Dear God, how thankful I am to be able to restore you 
to her 1 ” 

The governor held her close, while he told her of her 
babyhood and the story of the kidnapping, refraining 
from mentioning Cronk’s name. It took sometime to 
impress upon her that all need of apprehension was past, 
that her future cast with her own dear ones was safe, 
and that Lem and Lon were but as shadows of other 
days. 

Katherine, weeping with despair, was sitting close to 
Lon. She knew without being told that the father she 
had just found had lost from his memory all of the 
bitterness of the years gone by. He had gone back to 
his Midge, and now centered upon his newly found child 
the identity of this dead woman. It was better so, even 
Katherine admitted; for he was meek and tender, wholly 
unlike the sullen, ugly man they had s^en earlier in the 
evening. The squatter’s condition made it impossible to 
allow Katherine to be with him, and they dared not leave 
him alone in the hut. Later, when they were making 
plans for Cronk’s future, Vandecar said: 

“We can’t leave him here, Ann dear. Can’t we take 
him with us, Katherine.? ” 

“It’s the only thing I can see to do,” replied Ann, 
with catching breath. 

“ You’ll come with him and me, Katherine, and we’ll 
take him to the car, while he is subdued. You, Ann, 


FROM THE VALLEY 


dress that child, and wait here for Horace. I’ll come 
back directly. I must place Cronk with the conductor, 
for fear — ” 

“ Don’t be long,” begged Ann. ‘‘ I’m so afraid ! ” 

“ No, only long enough to signal the train and get 
them aboard. You must be brave, dear girl, and we 
must all remember what he has suffered. His heart is 
as big as the world, and I can’t forget that, indirectly, 
I brought this upon him.” He turned his glance upon 
the squatter, and Katherine’s eyes followed his. The 
lines about Lon’s mouth had softened with tenderness, 
his eyes were filled with adoration. Katherine flashed 
him back a sad smile. 

“ The little Midge ! ” murmured Lon. “ I’ll never steal 
ag’in — never! And I’ll jest fish and work fer my little 
woman — my pretty woman ! ” 

Vandecar rose and went to the squatter. 

“ Lon,” he said, placing a hand upon the rough jacket, 
‘‘ will you bring your little — ” He was about to say 
daughter, but changed the word to “ Midge,” and con- 
tinued, “ Will you bring Midge to my car and come to 
Tarrytown with us ? ” 

Cronk stared vacantly. 

“Nope,” he drawled; “I’ll stay here in the hut with 
Midge. It’s dark, and she’s afraid of ghosts. I’ll never 
steal ag’in. Mister, so I can’t get pinched.” 

Vandecar still insisted: 

“ But won’t you let your little girl come back and 
get her clothes.? And you, too, can come to our home, 
for — for a visit.” His face crimsoned as he pre- 
varicated. 

But Lon still shook his head. 

“ A squatter woman’s place be in her home with her 
man,” he said. 

Vandecar turned helplessly upon Katherine. 


I 


OF THE MISSING 


S25 


“ You persuade him,” he entreated in an undertone. 

Katherine whispered her desire in her father’s ear. 

‘‘ We’ll go only for a few days,” she promised. 

“And ye’ll come back here.?” he demanded. 

The girl glanced toward Governor Vandecar, and 
I caught the slight inclination of his head. 

“Yes,” she promised; “yes, we’ll come back, if you 
( are quite well.” 

Cronk stooped down and pressed his lips to hers. 

I “ I’d a gone with ye. Midge, ’cause I couldn’t say no 
! to nothin’ ye asked me.” But he halted, as they tried to 
! lead him through the door. 

“ I don’t like the dark,” he muttered, drawing back. 

Fledra eyed him in consternation. Never before had 
she known him to express fear of anything, much less of 
the elements which seemed but a part of his own stormy 
nature. Never had she seen the great head bowed or 
the shoulders stooped in timidity. Katherine had Cronk’s 
hand in hers, and she gently drew him forward. 

“ Come, come ! ” she breathed softly. 

“ I’m afraid,” Lon whined again. “ I want to stay 
here, Midge.” He looked back, and, encountering Van- 
decar’s eyes, made appeal to him. 

“ Cronk,” the governor said, “ do you believe that I 
am your friend.?” 

The squatter flung about, facing the other. 

“ Yep,” he answered slowly, “ I know ye be my friend. 
If ye’ll let me walk with my hand in yer’n. I’ll go.” He 
said it simply, as a child to a parent. He held out his 
crooked fingers, and Vandecar seized them. Katherine 
took up her position on the other side of her father, and 
the three stepped out into the night and began slowly 
to ascend the hill. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 


T O Horace Shellington it seemed many hours before 
the small, jerky train that ran between Auburn 
and Ithaca drew into the latter city. In his eager- 
ness to reach the squatter settlement without loss of time, 
he hastened from the car into the station. He knew that 
it would be far into the night before he reached Lon 
Cronk’s, and, with his whole soul, he hoped he would be in 
time to save Fledra from harm. At the little window in 
the station he hurriedly demanded of the agent a mode 
of conveyance to take him to the spot nearest the squat- 
ter’s home. 

“ There’s no way to get there tonight over this road,” 
said the man ; ‘‘ but you might see if Middy Bumes could 
take you down the lake. He’s got a tug, and for a little 
money he’ll run you right there.” 

Horace quickly left the station, and, making his way 
to the street, found the house to which he had been directed. 
At his knock Middy Bumes poked a bald head out of 
the door and asked his business. In a few words Shell- 
ington made known his wants. The tugman threw the 
door wider and scratched his head as he cogitated: 

“ Mister, it’ll take me a plumb hour to get the fire 
goin’ good in that tug. If ye can wait that long, till 
I get steam up, I’ll be glad to take ye.” So, presently 
the two walked together toward the inlet where the boat 
was tied. 

“ Who do you want to see down the lake this time 
of the year? ” asked Burnes, with a sidelong look at 
his tall companion. 


326 


FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 327 


“ Lon Cronk.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! ” laughed Middy. “ I j est brought him 
and Lem Crabbe up from Tarrjtown, with one of Lon’s 
kids. She’s a pretty little ’un. I pity her, ’cause she 
didn’t do nothin’ but cry all the way up, and once she 
jumped into the lake.” 

“ Did what.f^ ” 

The sharpness of Shellington’s voice told Middy that 
this news was of moment. 

“ Well, ye see, ’tain’t none of my business, ’cause the 
gal belongs to Lon ; but, if she was mine, I wouldn’t give 
her to no Lem Crabbe. Lem said she jumped in the 
lake after a pup ; but I ’low he was monkeyin’ with her. 
Her pappy hopped in the water after her like a frog 
and pulled her out quicker’n scat.” 

With fear in his heart, Horace waited on deck for 
Burnes to get up steam, and it seemed an interminable 
time before the tug at last drew lazily from the inlet 
bridge, and, swinging round under Middy’s experienced 
hand, started slowly down the black stream. 

Ann closed the shanty door after seeing the governor 
and his two companions disappear up the hill, and smiled 
at Fledra with shining eyes. The wonderful events of 
the evening had taken place in such rapid order that 
she had no time to express her happiness to the girl. 
She opened her arms, and Fledra darted into them. 

‘‘ It’s all because you prayed. Sister Ann,” she sobbed, 
‘‘ and because you taught me how to pray. Does — 
does Horace know about my new father and mother ? ” 

‘‘No, Dear; he left Tarrytown before we ourselves 
knew. We received a telegram from Horace saying he 
had come on to Ithaca. We must wait here; for he’ll ar- 
rive sometime tonight. W^e couldn’t go and allow him 
to find this place empty.” 


328 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Of course not,” the girl sighed impatiently. ‘‘ Oh, 
I hope he comes soon ! ” 

Her soul burned for a sight of him. He had been the 
first to fly to her rescue, even when he had thought her 
but a squatter girl. He had not shrunk from the dangers 
of the settlement, and, in spite of the peril of Lem and 
Lon, he had been willing to drag her away from harm 
for the love of her. The thought was infinitely sweet. 

At length Ann brought her to the present. 

“ Fledra dear, can you realize that little Mildred is 
your own sister, and that Mildred’s mother is yours.? 
Oh, Darling, you ought to be the happiest girl in the 
world ! ” 

“ I’m happy, all right,” said Fledra gravely ; “ only, I 
feel sorry for Katherine. Somehow, we changed Daddies, 
didn’t we.? ” 

“ Yes, Dear, and I feel for her too,” lamented Ann. 
“ I can’t see how she’s going to bear it.” 

“ Maybe she’s been a praying,” said Fledra, as I 
did when I thought I was coming to Lem. It does help 
a lot.” 

“ Dear child, dear heart,” murmured Ann, your faith 
is greater than mine! Katherine Vandecar is a saint, 
and — and so are you, Fledra.” 

“ No, I’m not.” The girl dropped her eyes and 
flushed deeply. 

“ Oh, but Fledra, you are 1 ” Then a new thought 
entered Ann’s mind, and she hesitated before she continued. 
“ Fledra, will you tell me something about Mr. Brimbe- 
comb.? I mean — you know — ithe trouble you spoke 
of in your letter to him ? ” 

Fledra flashed a startled glance. 

“ Did he dare show it to you.? ” 

“No, no, Fledra; he dropped it, and Horace found 
it.” 


OF THE MISSING 


3^9 


Is that the way you knew where I’d gone? ” 

‘‘ Yes, and on account of it Floyd went to the gover- 
nor’s house.” 

‘‘Oh, why did you let Floyd go out? He is so ill!” 
Her eyes were reproachful. 

Ann, with a smile, kissed the girl. 

“ Dear, unselfish child,” said she, “ don’t you under- 
stand that, if he hadn’t gone, you wouldn’t have your 
strong, big father, nor would little Floyd be now with his 
mother? ” 

“ Maybe our mother’ll make Floyd well,” cried Fledra. 
“ Oh, she couldn’t help but love him, could she. Sister 
Ann ? ” 

“ And it will be impossible for her not to love you, 
Deary,” exclaimed Ann, wiping her eyes. “ But now 
you must dress. Have you still the clothes you wore 
away from home? ” 

“ Yes, I have them ; but they’re all mussed. I fell in 
the lake, and got them all wet, and they’re wrinkled now. 
They’re up in the loft. Wait — I’ll get them.” She was 
scrambling up the ladder as she spoke, and her last words 
were uttered in the darkness of the loft. 

Ann could hear the girl moving about overhead, and 
heard the dragging of a box across the floor. Then 
another sound broke upon her ears, and before she could 
move toward the door it opened, and a shabby, one-armed 
man shuffled in, followed by Everett Brimbecomb. 

After Everett had disappeared across the little bridge. 
Scraggy closed the rickety door of her hut and went 
fidgeting about in the littered room. Long she brooded, 
sniveling in her bewilderment. Something hazy, some- 
thing out of the past, knocked incessantly upon her de- 
mented brain. This something touched her heart ; for she 
whimpered as does a hurt child when the hurt is deep 


330 


FROM THE VALLEY 


and the child’s mother is not near. She still missed 
Black Pussy, and when she thought of the loss of her 
only friend wilder paroxysms of frenzied grief filled the 
shanty. 

After one of her raving fits of crying more vehement 
than those preceding, Black Pussy again came to her 
mind, and suddenly she was taken back to the wintry 
night she had lost him. Feebly she put the events of 
that evening together, one by one, until like a burst of 
light the memory of her boy came to her. Not once 
hitherto had she remembered him since his blow had sent 
her into unconsciousness. Now she recalled how roughly 
her son had handled her, and she did not forget his 
threat to kill her if she ever mentioned to anyone that 
she was his mother. She recognized, too, the identity of 
the stranger who had asked her the way to the scow but 
a little while before. 

A sane expression came into her eyes, and she settled 
herself back to think. With her pondering came a clear 
thought — her boy was seeking his father I Still some- 
what dazed, she tottered to one corner of the hut and fum- 
bled for her shawl. 

‘‘ He axed for Lon ! ” she whispered. Nope, he axed 
for Lem, his own daddy. Now, Lemmy’ll take me with 
’em — oh, how I love ’em both! And the boy’ll eat all 
he wants, and his little hand’ll smooth my face when my 
head aches ! ” 

Muttering fond words, she opened the door and slid 
out into the night. She paused on the rustic bridge, 
the sound of footsteps in the lane that led to the tracks 
bringing her to a standstill. Several persons were ap- 
proaching her. They came steadily nearer, passed the 
footpath that led to her hut, and she crept out. Two 
men and a woman., were near enough for Screech Owl 
to touch them, if she had put out her hand. She re- 


on THE MISSING 


331 


mained perfectly quiet, and Lon Cronk’s voice, muttering 
words she did not understand, came to her through the 
underbrush. Then, in her joy. Scraggy speedily forgot 
them, and, as she hurried down the hill sent out cry after 
cry into the clear night. 

For a long time Miss Shellington stood staring at 
Everett, and the man as fixedly at her. The movements 
were still going on in the loft. 

“ How came you here.^ ” cried Ann sharply, when she 
had at last gathered her senses. 

“ I might ask you the same thing,” replied Everett 
suavely. ‘‘ This is scarcely a place for a girl like you.” 

‘‘ I came after Fledra,” she said slowly. “ I didn’t 
know — ” 

Everett came forward and crowded back her words 
with: 

And I came for the same person ! ” 

Brimbecomb reasoned quickly that he dared not tell 
Ann the truth, and that so long as she thought his ac- 
tions were for Fledra’s welfare she would stand by him. 

“ I found out that these ruffians had taken her, and 
I came after her. I thought a good school would be 
better than this.” He swept his hand over the hut, 
and did not notice the expression that flitted across Ann’s 
face. 

Lem uttered an unintelligible grunt, and growled: 

“ He’s a damned liar. Miss ! He wanted to buy the 
gal from me and Lon.” 

Everett laughed sneeringly. 

Miss Shellington would not believe such a tale as 
that,” said he ; ‘‘ she knows me too well.” 

‘‘ I do believe him,” said Anh. “ I saw the letter you 
lost, which Fledra wrote you. You dropped it in our 
* drawing-room. Horace found it.” 


SS2 


FROM THE VALLEY 


Everett saw his fall coming. He would not be worsted 
by this woman, who had believed once that he was the 
soul of truth. To lose her and the prestige of her family, 
and to lose also Fledra, was more than he would endure. 

He bounded forward and grasped her arm fiercely. 

“ Where is that squatter girl.^ I’ll stand nothing from 
you or that brother of yours! Where is he, and where 
is she.^ ” 

Ann stood silently praying for strength. So plainly 
had Everett shown his colors that she felt disgust grow 
in her heart, although her eyes were directed straight 
upon him. She hoped that the girl in the loft upstairs 
would not come down until Governor Vandecar returned. 
Again she sent up a soul-moving petition for help. 

“ You can’t have her! ” she said, trying to speak calmly. 

She is going to marry my brother, Everett.” 

Just then Fledra, robed in her own clothes, scrambled 
to the top rung of the ladder. She paused halfway 
down and glanced over the scene below with unbelieving 
eyes. 

“ Go back up, Fledra,” commanded Ann, 

“ I don’t think she’ll go back up,” gritted Brimbe- ■ 
comb. Come down ! ” He advanced a step, with his 
hand upon his hip. I’ve something to coax you with,” 
he declared in an undertone. “ It is this ! ” 

Fledra saw the revolver, noted the expression on the 
man’s face, and stepped slowly down the ladder. The 
silence of the moment that followed was broken by several 
loud hoots of an owl. The first one seemed in direct ■ 

proximity to the hut; the last ones came faintly from the 1 

shore of the lake. Ij 

When she saw the gun, Ann whitened to the ears, and | 
the threat in Everett’s eyes caused Lem to gurgle in his 
throat, as if he would speak but could not. 

“ I told you,” said Everett, with his lips close to 


OF THE MISSING 


333 


Fledra’s ear, that I would use any means to get you. 
• . . Stand aside there — you two ! ” 

He turned his flashing eyes upon the scowman and 
!Ann, and, placing his arm about Fledra, drew her for- 
ward. The girl was so dazed at the turn of affairs that 
she allowed Everett to drag her, unresisting, half the 
length of the room. Then her glance moved upward to 
Ann. Miss Shellington’s face was as pallid as death, and 
her horrified look at Everett brought Fledra to her 
senses. The girl looked appealingly at Lem. The scow- 
man’s squinted eyes and the contortions of his face caused 
Fledra to cry out: 

‘‘ Lem, Lem, save me ! save me ! ” 

Crabbe drew his heavy body more compactly together, 
and, with his eyes glued upon the revolver, advanced 
along the wall toward Brimbecomb. His frightful wheezes 
and choking gulps attracted the lawyer’s attention to him, 
and the gun was suddenly leveled at his breast. 

‘‘Stand back there, Crabbe!” ordered Everett. “You 
have nothing to do with this.” 

But, as the lawyer spoke, Lem sprang forward with 
the fierceness of a wild beast. Instantly followed the 
report of a revolver; but the bullet went wide and sunk 
into the opposite wall, for, as Everett aimed at Lem, 
Fledra twisted and struck his arm so heavily that his 
fingers loosened and the weapon clattered across the room. 

The impact of the scowman’s body bore the lawyer 
down, while Fledra was thrown away from the struggle 
by a sweep of Lem’s left arm. Ann was petrified with 
fear; but this did not keep her from picking up the girl 
from the floor. In her terror she took in each motion of 
the fighters. She saw Lem lift his left hand, and heard 
the sickening thud as his great brown fist struck Ever- 
ett full in the face.. She saw the hook flash in the candle- 
light, then bury its glittering prong in the other’s neck. 


SS4i FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


Everett screamed once, then was silent; for with his un- 
maimed hand the scowman had grasped his enemy’s throat 
and was shaking the body as a dog does a rat. In his 
frenzy, Lem threshed and tumbled Brimbecomb about on the 
hut floor, the sight of his rival’s blood sending him mad; 
and always the sound of his gasps and chokes rose above 
the struggle. Of a sudden the gurgles in the throat of 
the scowman ceased, his face became purple black, and 
it seemed to Ann that his blood must burst through 
the thick skin. With one last movement he again buried 
his hook in Everett, then tried to throw the body from 
him; but, instead, he himself, fell in a heap on the floor. 

Suddenly the door opened, and Scraggy Peterson stag- 
gered into the hut. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 


S HE sent no glance at Ann, nor did she see Fledra 
shrinking in the corner. No thought came to her 
weak brain save of the two men at grips with death. 
She staggered forward with a cry. 

Lemmy, Lemmy, ye wouldn’t kill yer own brat ? 
. . . He’s our little ’uni . . , Lemmy! . . . 

God! . • . Ye’ve killed him!” 

Scraggy put her hands on Everett, and saw Lem 
struggle to sit up, the lust of killing still blazing in 
his eyes. He had heard the woman’s words, and as he 
slowly grasped the import of them he turned over and 
raised his head while pulling desperately at his throat. 

“ Oh, Lemmy, love,” she murmured, “ ye’ve killed him 
this time! He’s dead!” She leaned farther over, and 
kissed the white face of her son, ‘‘ Yer hook’s killed 
our little ’un, Lemmy — my little ’un, my little ’un ! ” 
Oh, no, no, he isn’t dead ! ” cried Ann. “ He can’t 
be dead ! ” She let go her hold on Fledra, and, with 
Scraggy, bent over Everett. ‘‘ Oh, he breathes ! But 
he isn’t your son.?^” 

“ Yep ; he be Lemmy’s boy and mine,” answered 
Scraggy, lifting her eyes once more to Ann. “ Look ! 
He were hurt here by the hook when he were a baby.” 
She drew aside Everett’s tattered shirt-front and displayed 
a long white mark. 

Ann staggered back. Everett had said to her: 

“ My mother will know me by the mark on my breast.” 
So this was the end of Everett’s dream! 

“ He didn’t love his mammy very much,” Scraggy went 

335 


336 


FROM THE VALLEY 


on, “ nor his pappy, nuther ; but it were ’cause he didn’t 
know nuther one of us very well, and Lem didn’t love 
him nuther. And now they’ve fit till he’s dead ! Lemmy’s 
sick, too. Look at his face! He can’t swaller when he’s 
sick like that.” She left Everett and crawled to Lem. 

Can ye drink, Lemmy ? ” she asked sorrowfully. 

The grizzled head shook a negative. 

‘‘ Be ye dyin ? ” 

This time Crabbe’s head came forward in assent. 

‘‘ Then ye dies with yer little boy — poor little feller ! 
He were the bestest boy in the hull world ! ” Here she 
placed an arm under Everett’s neck; throwing the other 
about Lem, she drew the two men together before she 
resumed. “ And Lemmy was the bestest man and pappy 
that anybody ever see ! ” 

Screech Owl’s last words were nearly drowned by the 
shrill whistle of a steamer. A minute later Ann and 
Fledra heard running footsteps coming from the direc- 
tion of the lake. There was no knock; but a quick jerk 
of the latch-string flung wide the door — and Fledra was 
in Horace’s arms. 

‘‘ Thank God, my little girl is safe I ” he murmured. 

Then he glanced over her head, his horrified attention 
centered upon the group on the floor. 

Scraggy looked up at him, still holding Lem and Ever- 
ett. 

“ I’m glad ye corned. Mister. Can’t ye help ’em any ? ” 

For many minutes they worked in silence over the father 
and son. Once the brilliant eyes of Brimbecomb opened 
and flashed bewilderedly about the room, until he caught 
sight of Ann. A smile, sweet and winning, curved his 
lips. Then he lapsed into unconsciousness again. 

‘‘ Oh, I want him to speak to me, Horace,” moaned Ann, 
‘‘ only a little word I ” 


OF THE MISSING 


337 


‘‘ Wait, Dear,” said Horace. “ We’re doing all we can. 
. . . I believe that man over there is dead.” 

He made a motion as if to lean over the scowman; but 
Scraggy pushed him back. 

‘‘ No, my Lemmy ain’t dead,” she wailed, ‘‘ course he 
ain’t dead ! ” She placed her lips close to the dying man’s 
ear, and called, “ Lemmy, Lemmy, this be Scraggy ! ” 

The hooked arm moved a trifle, and then was still. 
The fingers of the left hand groped weakly about, and 
Scraggy, with a sob, lifted the arm and put it about 
her. Had the others in the room been mindful of the 
action, they would have seen the man’s muscles tighten 
about the woman’s thin neck. Then presently his arm 
loosened and he was dead. 

Everett’s eyes were open, and he was trying to speak. 

‘‘ Is — Ann — here? ” he whispered faintly. 

“ Yes, Dear, I am here, right close beside you. Can’t 
you feel my hands ? ” 

His head turned feebly, and his fingers sought hers. 

“ I have been — wretchedly = — wicked ! ” 

His voice was so low that Horace did not catch the 
words; but Scraggy heard, and crawled from Lem to Miss 
Shellington’s side. 

Missus, will ye tell my little boy-brat that his mammy 
be here? Will ye say as how I loved him — him and 
Lemmy, allers ? ” 

Her haggard face was close to Ann’s, and the latter 
took in every word of the low-spoken petition. Miss 
Shellington bent over the dying man. 

‘‘Everett,” she said brokenly, “your own mother is 
here, and she wants you to speak to her.” 

Brimbecomb partly rose, and, in scanning those in the 
hut, his eyes fell upon Screech Owl. The tense agony 
seemed for an instant to leave his face, and it fell into 
more boyish lines. 


338 


FROM THE VALLEY 


“ Little ’un — pretty little ’un,” whispered Scraggy 
“ yer mammy loves ye, and Lemmy loved ye, too, if he 
did hit ye ! ” 

Screech Owl hung over him many minutes in a breathless 
silence; but when Vandecar came in Everett, too, was 
dead. Then, at last. Scraggy moved toward the door, 
and, with the same wild cry that had haunted the settle- 
ment for so many years, sprang out into the night. 

From her hiding place in the gulch. Scraggy saw 
Vandecar and the rest mount the hill. When they had 
(disappeared, she slunk down the lane and made straight 
for Lon’s hut. With dread in her eyes, she stood for 
sometime before the dark shanty, and then swayed for- 
ward to the window. 

When she reached it, superstition forced her back; but 
love proved stronger than fear, and she looked into 
the room. So dark was it within that she could see only 
the white mound on the floor — the mound made by the 
dead father and son. They were hers — all that was 
left of the men she had loved always! Scraggy tried the. 
door; but found it locked. Then she attempted to move 
the window; but it, too, had been fastened. With a stone 
she hammered out the glass, making an opening through 
which she dragged her body. As she stood there in silent 
gloom, the very air seemed to hang heavy with death. In 
the dark Scraggy broke out into sobs, and was seized with 
spasms of shivering ; she had no strength to move forward 
or backward. 

But again love drove her on, and some seconds passed 
before she found matches to light the candle. When the 
dim flame lighted up the room, she turned slowly to the 
middle of the floor. Tremblingly she drew down the cov- 
ering and looked upon her dead. They were hers — these 
men were hers even in death! Chokingly she stifled her 


OF THE MISSING 


339 


sobs, and then the decision came to her that she would 
keep a night vigil until break of day. Of the two, Screech 
Owl knew not which she loved better. 

“Ye both be dead,” she moaned, looking first at Lem 
then at Everett ; “ dead so ye’ll never breathe no more ! 
But Scraggy loves ye. . . . God! ye nuther one of 
ye knows how she loves ye! There weren’t no men in the 
hull world as good as ye both was. . . . Lemmy 

didn’t know ye was his, little ’un, and ye didn’t know 
Lemmy were yer daddy. I’ll stay with ye both till the 
day.” 

Saying this, she crouched low between Crabbe and 
Brimbecomb, and, encircling each neck with an arm, thrust 
her face down close between them. 

Lon Cronk’s old clock on the shelf ticked out the min- 
utes into the somberness of the hut. The waves of the 
lake, breaking ceaselessly upon the shore, softened the 
harsh, uneven croaks of the marsh-frogs with their har- 
mony. Through the broken window drifted the night 
noises, and the wind fluttered the candle-flame weakly. 
Suddenly Screech Owl thoug' it she heard a voice — a 
voice filled with tender sympathy and pathos. Without 
disengaging her arms, she lifted herself and searched with 
dim eyes even the comers of the hut. Misty forms shaded 
to ghost-gray seemed to steal out and group themselves 
about her dead. She took her arm from Everett and 
brushed back the straggling locks that blurred her 
sight. 

The voice spoke again, pronouncing her name in low, 
even tones. Once more she wound her arm about Everett, 
and pressed herself down between her beloveds. Her eyes, 
protruding and fearful, saw the candlelight grow dimmer. 

“ Lemmy, Lemmy,” she gasped between hard-coming 
breaths, “I’m cornin’ after ye and our pretty boy! 
Wherever ye both be — I come — ” 


FROM THE VALLEY 


340 

A film gathered over Scraggy’s eyes, and her words 
were cut short by the pain of the intermittent flutterings 
of her heart. She fell lower, and with a last weak effort 
drew the heads closer together. Then Scraggy’s spirit, 
which had ever sought her lover and her son, took flight 
out into the vast expanse of the imiverse, to find Everett 
and Lem. 


Governor Vandecar bent over his wife. 

“ Darling,” he murmured, “ I have brought you back 
your other baby. Won’t you turn and — look at — 
her? ” 

Fledra was standing at her father’s side, and now for 
an instant she looked down into the blue eyes through 
which she saw the yearning heart of her mother. Then 
she knelt down with Floyd, and they rested their heads 
in tearful silence under the hands of these dear ones, who 
trembled with thankfulness. 

The last fifteen years flashed as a panorama across the 
governor’s mind. That day he had discharged his debt 
to Lon Cronk by placing the squatter where his diseased 
mind could be treated, and he had insisted that his own 
name and home should be Katherine’s, the same as of yore. 
It was not until Mildred opened the door and entered 
hesitantly that he raised his head. Silently he held out 
his arms and drew his baby girl into them. 

Horace’s first duty when he returned to Tarrytown was 
to make Ann as comfortable as he could. She had borne 
up well under the tragedy, and smiled at him bravely as 
he left for Vandecar’s. The governor met him in the hall 
and drew him into his library. 

I must speak with you, boy, before — ” 

Then I may talk with Fledra ? ” 


OF THE MISSING 


341 


The governor hesitated. 

“ She is so young yet, Horace ! I beg of you to wait, 
won’t you? There are many things to be attended to be- 
fore she can leave her mother and me. yV'e’ve only just 
found her.” 

“ I must see her, though,” replied Horace stubbornly. 

“ You shall, if you will promise me — ” 

I won’t promise anything,” said Horace, slowly rais- 
ing his eyes. “ After I have spoken to her, we’ll decide.” 

Vandecar sighed and touched the bell. 

“ Say to Miss Fledra that I wish to speak with her,” he 
said to the servant. 

After a moment they heard her coming through the 
hall. Vandecar placed his hand upon Horace’s arm; but 
the young man flung it off as the door opened and Fledra 
came in. Her face was still pale and wan. Her eyes, 
darkened by circles, testified to the misery of the days 
since she had left him. Horace spoke her name softly, 
held out his arms, and she fled into them. He pressed her 
head closely to his breast, smoothing the black curls, while 
blinding tears coursed down his face. The governor 
turned from them to the window. He stood there, until 
Horace asked huskily: 

“ Fledra, Fledra, do you still love me? Oh, say that 
you do! I’m perishing to be forgiven for my lack of 
faith in you. Can you forgive me, beloved? ” 

‘‘ I love you, Horace,” she murmured, lifting bright, shy 
eyes. “ And I love my beautiful mother, too, and — oh, 
I — worship my splendid father.” 

She held out one hand to Governor Vandecar, over which 
the father closed his fingers. Then she threw back her 
head and smiled at them both. 

“ I’m going to stay with my mother till she gets well. 
I’m goin’ to help Floyd till he walks as well as ever. 


342 FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 


Then Fm goin’ to study and read till my father’s satis- 
fied. Then, after that,” she turned a radiant glance on 
both men, and ended, when he wants me, I’U go with 
my Prince^’ 


THE END 


I 



,,/v; 








1 



,N 


■v ^ 








